Q is for Quarry
by celadon
Summary: The end! Finally! Many thanks for all your patience!
1. Chapter 1

**Q is for Quarry**

**_Intro_**

"What have we got?" Don swallowed a yawn and stuck his hands in his pockets to stop himself from rubbing at his eyes again.

4 AM. What a rotten time for a wake-up call. Especially when he had finally turned in at - what was it again? One? One-thirty? Never mind - no point in thinking about it - only made it worse. _Pretend you've had eight hours and maybe it will feel like that._

"Dorothy Meyers - white female, forty-four. Found bludgeoned to death in her kitchen." Colby steered a path through the busy crime scene mice, indicating a door straight ahead.

_Bludgeoned. Great. That's an image to start the day with. Or end it with - depending on your point of view. _He stepped over the narrow threshold, nodding a greeting to David, who was chatting with a tall man in a suit. A glance at the badge clipped to the man's belt identified him as an LAPD detective.

"Don, this is Lt. Saul Michaels. Lt. Michaels, Special Agent Don Eppes."

Don accepted the hand offered, skirting the body lying uncovered in front of the stove taking up most of the floor space. "Nice to meet you."

He dropped into a crouch next to the body, careful to keep his shoes clear of the dark pool of viscous liquid haloing the head. The eyes stared back at him, open and focused on nothing. He winced a little, even as he took in the details of her position and the direction of the blood spatter. "No ME?" _The sooner somebody looks at her, the sooner we can cover her up. _

"On her way. You beat her here."

Don nodded. _Good. One step closer to according the body a little dignity. _Oh, he knew she was dead, but still…He tugged a pair of gloves free from his pocket and slid his hands into them. "Who found her?"

"One of my guys." Lt. Michaels spoke up. "Took a call from one of the neighbors about loud music and investigated when she didn't answer the knock."

"Loud music." Don squinted up at him, then glanced reflexively at his watch. "At this hour? That a common thing, did they say?"

Michaels shook his head. "Nope. Evidently she's usually pretty quiet - one reason the neighbor was so put out."

Don studied the area around the head wound. Back of the skull. Probably didn't even see it coming. "So the perp either used the noise to cover the sounds of the murder, or wanted to make sure she was found."

"Or both," David suggested.

Don nodded. "And where was the music coming from?"

"There's a sound system by the door."

Don slowly unbent his knees, pushing to his feet. "Convenient. We know if that's where they entered?"

"Definite signs of forced entry."

"Uh huh. And we know that wasn't from your guy?" He glanced at Michaels.

Michaels shook his head. "Got the key from the landlady, he says. She has the apartment in the basement."

"Yeah." Don scratched at his ear. _What I wouldn't give for a cup of coffee. _"Tell me again why we're catching this one instead of the LAPD?"

"She's a federal witness." Don's brows rose fractionally and David continued, "In the ValCom case?"

A frown gathered on Don's forehead. "She's not the only witness in that case." He turned abruptly. "Colby - get on the phone and tell them that I want protection on every witness in the ValCom case - starting ten minutes ago."

Colby whistled. "Wow. Do you know how many witnesses that means?"

Don looked at him. "Your point?"

Colby nodded, pulling out his cell. "I'm on it."

Don turned his attention back to Lt. Michaels. "So. Where's this neighbor?"

"Up a floor. One of my guys is with her."

"Good. David, you're with me." _Coffee AND breakfast. Something hot. _

"Hey, Don?"

Don followed Colby's voice back to the small living room. "Yeah? They giving you a hard time?"

"Naw - they're moving on it. But - well, there's something here I think you oughta see."

There was an odd note in Colby's voice, and Don eyed him curiously, trying to read his expression. He stepped around the crime scene activity to join him by one of the crime scene mice, who was busily organizing evidence bags. He was vaguely aware that David had followed him.

"What you got?"

Wordlessly, Colby handed him a clear plastic evidence bag, neatly labeled.

Don glanced at it, then took it from him, looking more closely at the small square of pasteboard sealed inside. His stomach gave an odd lurch, and he turned the bag over to study the other side, though he knew what it said by heart. Without thinking, he rubbed one gloved hand through his hair. Suddenly breakfast didn't sound so appealing.

"Nice Stats," Colby offered weakly, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

Don turned the bag back over, ran a thumb over the familiar logo under the plastic.

David tried to catch a glimpse over his shoulder. "What is it?"

Don drew in a breath, not certain he wasn't still in bed, having some surreal, mixed up dream. "It's a baseball card." His voice sounded odd to his own ears.

"Mine. My rookie baseball card."

_TBC_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Sorry - this took a little longer than I hoped!_

Chapter 1

"So. Whattya think?"

"I think you look pretty cute."

Don rolled his eyes. "Yeah, okay, can we move through any of that stuff as quickly as possible and get down to business?"

Megan smiled. "I'll try. Actually, you don't look all that different. It's amazing."

"That's what my Dad always says." Don managed to suppress a yawn, followed it with a chaser of coffee. It helped a little, even though a half bagel had had to stand in for the hot breakfast. He studied the card pinned to the large board, next to shots of the corpse and the crime scene.

He couldn't say that he agreed with Megan or his dad - to him the grinning kid in the baseball uniform seemed almost a stranger: someone he barely remembered, smile still unmarred by the cumulative burden of intimate knowledge of the worst that people were capable of doing to each other. It was as if in shutting the door on that earlier life, that kid had disappeared completely - the only remains preserved in effigy on a worn baseball card. He struggled with another yawn, less successfully this time.

Megan nudged him. "So how come I'm the only one who got to sleep in?"

"Didn't need you yet." Don kneaded his forehead. "David and I talked to the landlady and the neighbor who called the police while Colby did a door to door - figured that one of us alert in the morning would be to our advantage. You won the toss."

"Very considerate." Megan's eyes traced the images marching across the board. "The wine bottle they used as a weapon - do we know if it was hers?"

"Seems likely. There was an empty space on the wine rack and the bottle was dusty, like the others. Hoping forensics will be able to tell us for sure."

"Maybe just an opportunity kill. Maybe her being a federal witness was just a coincidence."

"And maybe she just happened to be a fan of minor league ball?"

"Maybe."

"Yeah. Maybe. But that's about one too many coincidences for me. Especially since we didn't find any other baseball memorabilia around, and none of the neighbors seemed to recall her ever going to games or talking about them."

"She live there long?"

"Ten years." Don leaned back against a desk, trying to get a broader view of the board. "You know, I would have sworn that only two of those remained in the world - one in my old box of stuff from the Stockton Rangers, and one in my parents' scrapbook. Weird to suddenly see it somewhere else."

"Aw." Megan patted his shoulder. "I would have saved it."

Don gave her a half-hearted scowl. "I thought we were finished with that?"

Megan's smile broadened. "That was the last one - I promise."

"Bet you could buy it on eBay," Colby interjected.

Both Megan and Don turned to look at him and he shrugged. "You can buy anything on eBay."

"Yeah, I don't even want to imagine what _you're_ buying there, Granger."

Colby smirked. "Couldn't if you tried, Reeves."

"Probably some secret, shameful fixation with the ballet or Madame Alexandra dolls." Megan moved closer to the card and tilted it into a better light.

Colby stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Okay, now that hurt."

"Not much spatter on this - do we know where they found it?"

"We have the notes and the crime scene diagram, but it's hard to tell if it should have caught any or not. LAPD is sending over the forensics tape - that should tell us more. What about the ValCom witnesses? Any moves on any of the others?"

David looked up from his phone. "Not that we know about. But it's too early to be sure."

"Okay - " Don allowed himself one more rub across the eyes, then uncapped a marker and moved to the board. "So, we have one possibility - a hit on a ValCom witness. David, you tracking down whether or not there was anything special about her testimony?"

"Working on it."

"Good. What else? Random killing of opportunity? What for? Any sign of robbery or sexual assault?"

"Her purse was still there and looked untouched - " Colby volunteered. "And the place was pretty neat - not ransacked."

Don nodded, making a note on the board. "So if anything was taken, then it was by somebody who knew where to find it. Sexual assault?"

"Still waiting on the ME." David moved closer to the photos. "But I don't know. Doesn't seem likely from the position of the body and the state of the clothes."

"We'll wait on the ME. She was in her robe, though - could be a date that went bad."

Colby wrinkled his forehead. "You mean like post-date regret?"

"Sounds like you know something about that, huh, Granger?"

Colby grinned wolfishly. "My reputation speaks for itself, Reeves."

Don tuned out the friendly sniping, his eyes dragged again to the baseball card, looking incongruous among the blood splashed crime scene photos. He generally kept careful walls between the different sections of his life, but ever since his return to LA, they had begun to overlap in ways that he wasn't quite sure he was comfortable with. He had finally broken down and joined the FBI baseball team, but that was as far as he had ever let his baseball life and FBI life intersect. The fact that some unknown somebody had breached even those delicate boundaries really got under his skin. Abruptly, he dropped the marker. "I'm getting coffee. Anybody want some?"

He didn't actually wait for an answer, but as he entered the small kitchen, he could tell he had picked up a shadow. _Megan. Great. Here we go_.

He splashed coffee into a paper cup and reached into the small fridge for milk before adding, "I would have fixed your coffee. I know how you take it."

Megan leaned against the counter and watched him tear open a packet of _Splenda_. "So. What time did you actually leave here last night?"

He poked at the coffee with a stirrer. "I don't know. Late."

"I figured. Maybe you should take a couple of hours. Get some sleep."

He shook his head. "I want to get everything from the witnesses organized while it's still fresh."

"Fresh. Interesting choice of words. Because you actually seem anything but."

Don bit down on the stirrer to stop a sharp answer. When he was sure that the flash of irritation was under control, he flicked the stirrer at the trash and slumped against the counter next to Megan. She was right. His nerves were in shreds.

"It's weird," he confessed.

She nodded. "Very."

"I mean, seeing this - piece of my past up there, surrounded by crime scene photos…" he dropped his eyes to the depths of his coffee cup.

"For us too. Probably why we're overcompensating with humor."

Don almost smiled. "Don't tell Colby that's what you're doing - he hates being analyzed."

"Are you kidding? That's going to be my very next salvo."

Don bent to take a sip of coffee, but lowered the cup abruptly without drinking. "So, tell me. If it was anybody but me - just any baseball player - would we even be bothering with that card?"

"Well, one way or the other, it's evidence, but…" Megan shrugged. "It _is_ you. And that makes it significant."

"There's no way anybody could know that call would go to me."

"But they knew the call would go to the FBI - and so knew it would eventually reach you."

Don sighed, one hand drumming restlessly on the countertop. "Let's check with dispatch anyway - see who took the call and patched it through."

"Okay. That mean you're going home for a few hours?" He shook his head. "Okay, how about this - you go see your dad and Charlie. Take the paperwork with you. Work on it somewhere else, where you don't have to stare at that board for a while. Clear your head."

Don grimaced at his coffee, then finally nodded. "Yeah. Maybe you're right."

Megan elbowed him. "I'm always right. Haven't you figured that out yet?"

Don tossed his coffee down the sink untasted and chuckled. "Put it in a memo for me so I'll remember."

"Forget it - I've seen your filing system. I'll sic Granger on dispatch. Anything else?"

"Yeah. Call me the second that forensics tape gets here from the LAPD. I mean it, Megan - I want to look at it right away. And have David keep plugging away at the other witnesses."

"I'm on it. So - second base, huh?"

"Yeah." Don paused. "What about it?"

"The way you run, I had you pegged for an outfielder."

Don grinned. "And you say you're always right. Looks like even a crack profiler can't deduce everything."

_TBC_


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: This was supposed to be a quick action/adventure, but somewhere along the way it got sort of introspective._

Chapter 2

When Don entered, the house was silent and had an empty feel, but he called a greeting anyway, just in case. No answer. Just as well - a little quiet time sounded good. As long as he could keep his eyes open.

He tossed his clipboard and papers on the dining room table and pulled out a chair. It was funny how that simple action, repeated so many times over his lifetime, immediately started his mind working, just as standing at home plate and swinging a bat immediately set a stance and certain muscles into motion.

He spread his papers out and got to work, things moving smoothly now in the quiet cocoon of the familiar walls. After a while, he leaned back to stretch and survey his progress. _Okay. That was better. The change of venue had helped - Megan was right._ He smiled. Not that he'd tell her that.

He stretched again, more luxuriously, allowing his yawn full reign this time, then paused, his eyes stopped by two trophies on the sideboard, standing tall amid the clutter of photos. He should probably collect those. It was one thing for them to be there when this was the family homestead, but this was Charlie's house now - Charlie didn't need them taking up space. Still, they'd sat there for so long - it was funny to think of the sideboard without them.

After a second, he pushed back his chair and strode over for a closer look. _I wonder…_dropped into a crouch and eased open one of the doors underneath. He hadn't seen it among his mother's stuff when he and Dad had packed everything away. Of course, it could be anywhere - it could even be lost…he ran his finger along the row of spines, recognized the one he wanted and dragged it out, dusting a hand over the embossed surface before rising to carry it back to the table.

He swung open the cover and smiled. God. Was he ever really that young? His mother's handwriting marched neatly underneath the photo. _'Donnie's First Baseball Game'_. It was like looking at another life.

"I remember that one."

He wasn't quite sure how his father had entered without him noticing - he really must be tired. Or distracted. Or something.

"Seems like a million years ago, huh?"

A shadow darkened the page as Alan leaned over his shoulder for a better look. "Must be perspective. Because it seems like only yesterday to me. Look - I'd taken you for your first trip to the barber the day before. He cut off most of your curls - I think your mother cried about it for two nights straight."

Don frowned. "She did? I don't remember that."

"Oh, not in front of _you_," Alan pulled up a chair and got comfortable. "You were so proud of your 'big boy' haircut."

"Yeah. I do remember that part. Maybe that's why Charlie still won't cut his, huh? Of course, that doesn't explain that slicked-back do he wore in High School."

"I think he thought that made him look older."

"Yeah?" Don turned the page. "Dream on."

_'Donnie's First Homerun' _stared back at him.

"Look at that smile."

There was a half-wistful note in Alan's voice that made Don smile a little then and there, just to hear it. He tapped the photo with one finger.

"I thought those front teeth were never coming back in." He chuckled faintly at the way his arms were raised over his head in a cheer, a smudge of dirt bridging his nose, then turned the page, running a palm over the yellowed newspaper clippings pasted there.

It was amazing, how neatly organized and catalogued everything was…and there was the photo of him with his MVP trophy, in junior high, looking accordingly awkward and self-conscious, too cool now to show how pleased he was. Underneath was printed, _'The Best Baseball Player in the World'_. He felt a suspicious tightness in his chest.

"Mom and her captions, huh?"

"What, you don't think she believed that?"

Tons of photos of High School baseball, but they thinned out abruptly around college. He skipped through those quickly, still not ready to admit how badly he had missed his cheering section. _Well, what could you do…she'd been on the other side of the continent_…_and Dad had come as often as he could. _

The newspaper clipping announcing his recruitment by the Stockton Rangers was there, though, and a copy of his Rookie card. This one still looked as bright as the day he'd mailed it.

"What made you pull this out?"

He looked up in surprise. He'd almost forgotten his dad was there. "Saw one of my rookie cards today."

"Oh, really? Where?"

He hadn't actually meant to mention that, and now he was stuck. He really _must_ be tired. He hesitated. He was the king of prevarication, but he avoided out and out lying. Still, the explanation "at a crime scene" seemed unnecessarily frightening and cruel.

"Uh - eBay." _Thanks, Colby_.

Alan laughed. "What were you doing on eBay?"

"Thinking about selling my baseball card collection. Those things can be worth a fortune, you know." _Oh, what a tangled web we weave…_

"Correction, my boy, they're worth a fortune in mint condition. Yours were _not_ in mint condition. You counted them, played with them, stood them up in the sand, and probably wiped your nose on them."

"Yeah, well, there's no point in owning them if you can't have fun with them. Maybe I'll just keep them anyway. They have a lot of good memories." He glanced at the next pages, chronicling his pro career. "You mind if I borrow this?"

"Keep it."

"Oh, Dad, I don't think - "

"No, I mean it." Alan closed it gently and pushed it across the table toward him. "She always meant for you to have it. But first she said she'd wait until you were through Quantico and knew where you'd be stationed, then she said you wouldn't have any place to keep it while you were doing Fugitive Recovery, and then when you started running your own office in Albuquerque and seemed to be settling in she ran out of excuses, but somehow it still didn't make it into the mail. I think she liked to look at it whenever she missed you. She'd definitely want you to have it now."

Don stared at it wordlessly. It wasn't so much the photos inside that moved him, it was this tangible reminder of his mother intertwined in his life, carefully preserving pieces of his growing up, ordering them, writing her thoughts on them…

He cleared his throat. "Thanks." Maybe it was his turn to look at it whenever he missed her.

"So. What brings you here anyway, in the middle of the day? Your baseball card?"

"Naw - no - just - needed a little break, I guess."

"Oh." His father eyed him shrewdly. "Want to crash for an hour or so? I'll wake you."

"No - thanks - I should - " his phone trilled and he grabbed for it. "Eppes." He listened for a minute, then stood, stacking papers with the phone flattened between his ear and shoulder. "Okay. I'll be there in about twenty. Thanks, Megan." He scooped up the album and his papers and clipboard and slapped Alan lightly on the shoulder with his free hand. "Gotta go. Thanks, Dad."

_TBC_


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Thanks for all the nice feedback - I promise to try and show the characters a terrible time and you readers a good one. :) Patty, I hadn't thought of that, but it gives me an idea. I'll see if it works out in the story. I'm both a younger and an older sibling myself, so I do try to keep both perspectives in mind when I write the boys!_

Chapter 3

Alan stood at the window and watched the black SUV pull away, a slight frown between his brows. Hard to know what that had been about. With Don, it was usually best to talk around a subject and let him blurt out what was on his mind, but that took time, and it was a trick he had never really mastered. Margaret had been better at it. He sighed. Women _were_ generally better at that kind of thing, he found. Probably why Charlie was more forthcoming, more likely to answer a direct question about his well being with a thoughtful answer - he had spent so much time in Margaret's company growing up. Maybe what Don could have used was more of a woman's touch. Maybe he still could. He grimaced and turned away from the window. Not that there seemed to be much hope of that.

He saw one of the lower doors of the sideboard still standing open and crossed the dining room to close it.

Then again, maybe it was just a fundamental difference in their personalities. Charlie approached his personal worries the way he approached his mathematical problems - talked about it, drew data from various sources: himself; Larry; Amita, he was pretty sure; and now Don - analyzed it, then started the whole process over, until he found the answer he was looking for. He had even seen him put his problems into equation format, though he personally couldn't imagine how that could work.

Don seemed to prefer to put his head down and fight his way past his worries - as though pushing them aside would somehow put them in perspective, or make them go away. Maybe it even worked sometimes - but not every time. Of that he was sure. Sometimes it just seemed to make them fester.

He reached the sideboard and smiled a little at the sight of the albums lined up within. Margaret had loved to keep them. There were several of Charlie's mathematics career and awards, a few of the boys growing up - and now they looked a little lonely without the one featuring Don's baseball history tucked among them.

Well, he couldn't cling to everything forever. He should really go through them at some point, see if there were any others that should belong to Don. That was one problem with Charlie buying the house - no reason to move anything, so too much stayed intact. He resisted the urge to pull them out and bury himself in them for a few hours. Instead, he gently swung the door shut and pushed back to his feet.

Maybe Margaret was right. He was having trouble moving on.

000

Don pulled into the first available parking space he found and shut off the engine. He picked up the album and paused. _No. _Probably there wasn't anything in there that could help them. Or, at least, he'd like to have a crack at finding it on his own first if there was. The album felt like something private between himself and his mother, and he wasn't eager to parade it in front of everybody. He turned it over in his hands, not quite ready to put it down.

He wondered if she'd kept one on his FBI career. If she had, he'd never seen it. He had never been able to figure out whether she'd disapproved as strongly of his choice as his father had. She hadn't seemed to, but that didn't mean anything - she'd always been a little better at playing her cards close to the vest. Still, maybe she'd understood. He'd never forget the rush of surprise that day he'd found out that she'd been serious about music - that the law hadn't been a clear and certain choice. It had been like a benediction. Until then, he'd thought he was the only Eppes to flail around, trying to settle on what he wanted to do - the lost, indecisive Eppes. To find out his mother had struggled as well had somehow made it seem all right - had given him a warm rush of sympathy and fellow feeling. Funny, too, that they had both ended up serving the law. He smiled at the worn cover. Yeah, he'd definitely leave the book here. Then he frowned.

On the other hand, two other times since he'd moved back to LA he had let protectiveness for his family distract him from doing his job. Was that what he was doing this time? He hoped not. Sometimes it seemed like there just wasn't room to be a human being and an FBI Agent both. He traced the outline of the album again, then put it back on the passenger seat and reached for the door handle. Odds were the card didn't have anything to do with the rest of the case anyway.

He grimaced. _Right. _If only he could believe that.

000

"So, have you watched it?" Don barely broke stride as he entered the bull pen, tossing his jacket on the nearest chair and rolling his sleeves above the elbow as he approached the small screen.

"Just once."

"And…?"

Megan jerked her head toward the screen. "See for yourself. I froze it there."

Don perched on a table top and narrowed his eyes at the stilled picture. He frowned. "Can we zoom in?"

The technician obediently zoomed in on the image, panning the blood spatter on the surrounding walls and table.

Don blew out a breath. "There's no way that spatter could have hit everything else and missed that card. Do we know if there were signs of blood underneath it?"

Megan nodded to the technician, who forwarded the tape to a shot of the table after the card had been bagged.

Don was silent, then clipped, "Go back."

The tape blurred as it scanned backward, then stopped and focused.

Don studied the small card, propped upright against a blood-speckled coffee cup. He scrubbed a hand over his face. "So it was deliberately staged."

"No doubt about it. And after her death - so, unless somebody else stopped by, by the murderer."

"Yeah." The word slid out on a sigh. _Creepy. _He could feel Megan's eyes on him.

"Any ideas?"

"Not a clue. Unless somebody's trying to tell me I should have stuck with baseball."

"Somebody's trying to tell you something."

"I get that. But who? And what? And why? What about you? Any guesses?"

Megan crossed her arms, her mouth twisted in a frown. "Well, it's not defaced in any way - slashed or written on - not so much as a mustache and glasses added or teeth blacked out. So there's nothing to indicate it's hostile."

"So somebody just wanted to say 'hi'?"

"Or somebody wanted to make sure you were on the case. Or wanted you to know that they knew something about you. Or both."

"Yeah. Okay." Don hopped down from the table top. "That's getting us nowhere and we've still got a dead witness to worry about. Let's find out what Colby has to say, then we'll put that angle aside for now and focus on her life and not mine. Where's David?"

"He's had that phone growing out of his ear all morning. Don - " When Megan didn't continue, he turned to look at her with raised brows. "Just - keep alert, okay? There's nothing to say it's hostile. But there's nothing to say it isn't, either."

"Don't worry." Don caught sight of David and gestured him over. "If you're worried that I'm being complacent, believe me, I'm feeling anything but."

David still had the phone pressed to his face as he greeted Don.

Don gave an appreciative whistle at the sight of the thick file in his free hand. "That all from this morning? Nice work."

David nodded, depressing the button on the small handset to break the connection. "Yeah. I've got a lot of info. I don't know how helpful it is, though."

"Yeah, well, okay - tell me."

David flipped open the folder. "Dorothy Meyers was one of thirty-two witnesses in the ValCom case. She was an ex-employee, rather than an expert witness. She wasn't scheduled to testify for two weeks and, near as I've been able to find out, there's nothing especially unique or important about her testimony - it's just corroborative. Her basic profile isn't that different from the other witnesses, except that she's one of the few that's single and lives alone."

"So she was vulnerable."

David shrugged. "I was thinking maybe we're looking at one of those crazy-for-publicity types? Maybe saw her name in the paper and asked her out - wanted to try and get closer to her as a way to catch the edge of the spotlight? Wouldn't be the first." He glanced questioningly at Megan, and she nodded.

"Could be. Could account for your place in the mix, Don - could have gotten your name out of the paper too and done some research - wanted to create a simulated bond with you, too."

Don shook his head. "Meyers I can see. But me? LA is crawling with FBI Special Agents. Why focus on me?"

"When's the last time you were in the paper? If you and ValCom were in at the same time, it could have caught somebody's attention."

"I can run that one down," suggested David quietly. "As long as I'm already warm on the research trail."

"Okay. Good." Don acknowledged David's wry smile with one of his own. "Thanks." David had worked with him longer than anyone, understood that action was the thing that was going to make this bearable for him. Hard to believe now that they had had such a rocky start. But David had originally seemed like nothing more than Merrick's mole and Don had trod a stiff line for a while, trying to find his balance between showing respect for Merrick's leadership and needing to establish his own leadership with his own team. He smiled to remember that he had once actually asked David point blank where his loyalties lay. There was sure no question about where they lay today.

Colby materialized at his elbow, his hands jammed deep in his pockets. He didn't wait for Don to ask. "Nothing unusual about the way that call came in or was dispatched that we can tell. Looks like a coincidence."

"Yeah?" Don raised a skeptical brow. "We're really racking up those coincidences, huh?"

"Yeah." Colby shifted, looking unhappy. "Um - Merrick wants to see you in his office, too."

_Great. _Don tried not to let anything show on his face, gave a brief nod instead. "Okay - thanks. David, you keep digging. Megan and Colby, see if you can find out what the hold up is with the ME's report. I'll see what's up with Merrick."

He didn't bother with his suit coat, his mind buzzing with preoccupation. What the heck could Merrick want this early in the game? Had they been sloppy? Careless? Unnecessarily rough with a witness?No matter how carefully he walked back through the morning's work, he couldn't come up with a thing.

He reached Merrick's work area and knocked lightly to get his attention. Merrick looked up and there was - something - in his eyes that started an itch at the base of Don's spine. "You wanted to see me, sir?"

Merrick gestured to a chair on the opposite side of the desk. "Have a seat, Eppes."

Don lowered himself cautiously into the chair, trying to gather clues from the smallest facial expression or hint of body language.

"Agent Gretski's team caught a case about an hour or so ago that looks like it could be related to yours."

Don's insides chilled. Had he been too slow? "Another ValCom witness?"

"No." Merrick made a steeple of his fingers, then collapsed them into a loose hand clasp. Don's brow furrowed. Merrick sure looked uncomfortable. "No, the victim profiles are very different. This one was a retired ATF Agent - Ron Alderman. But some of the methodology was similar - both bludgeoned to death with items found in their own homes; both left with sound blaring, the television in this case. Both lived alone, both found by neighbors."

Don's frown deepened. "An ATF Agent. What was the murder weapon?"

"A golf club. Left next to the body, just like the wine bottle. Alone in the apartment, like Meyers."

Don shrugged lightly. "We can work them both, if that's what you're asking, and yeah, I see the similarities, but I gotta say, the connection doesn't look all that strong."

"There's more."

Don sat back slowly, a little unsettled by Merrick's peculiar expression. "Okay."

Merrick opened his desk drawer and pulled out a plastic evidence bag, pushed it across the desk to Don. "That look familiar?"

Don stared, the odd stomach lurch he'd experienced in the small hours of the morning back and intensified three-fold. He picked up the evidence bag gingerly, his heart beating double time. _If this is a dream, somebody please wake me up. _

"Yes, sir." His voice came out sounding surprisingly normal this time. "That looks a whole lot like the photo page from my college year book."

_TBC_


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 4

The SUV engine fell quiet as Don switched off the ignition, but he sat for a moment, unmoving, gazing at the yellow-lit windows ringing the house before him. It looked so peaceful and welcoming - and familiar. He had always found comfort in the familiar. That is, until familiar images had started showing up at crime scenes. He winced. What would he do if a picture of the house showed up at one? He clutched at the key still in the ignition at the thought, just stopped himself from turning over the engine and driving away. That wouldn't solve anything - he had learned that lesson the hard way. What was done was done. Besides, he had promised his dad he'd be here. He glanced at his watch - an hour ago, actually. How the heck had it gotten so late?

He had stopped by Joan Gretski's work area after his chat with Merrick, relieved to find her there. At the sight of him, she'd paused in barking orders to her team and smiled.

"Eppes!" she'd bellowed in her un-dainty voice, tugging the evidence bag unceremoniously from his hand. "You know, after seeing this picture, I'm thinking you should grow your hair out again. I mean, how cute is that?"

Don had folded his arms over his chest. "You know, Gretski, I'm getting more than my share of that from my team - you might cut me a little slack."

Joan's smile broadened to a grin, though she tried for poorly-feigned shock. "A bad-ass like you asking for slack? Say it ain't so."

Don neatly yanked the evidence bag back. "Yeah, well, it's tough to maintain your bad-ass image with hair like this." He gestured to the picture. "What can you tell me?"

Joan's face sobered and she jerked her head toward a conference room, indicating that he should follow, scooping up a small stack of files and hollering last minute instructions to her team.

Don smiled secretly. He didn't think Joan even had a "low" volume. They had worked together a time or two, had been teamed up on a training drill once and had had to participate on the same discussion panel on the pros and cons of extreme force in law enforcement. She was, he guessed, a few years his senior, hardened by time on the job, but with a wide open laugh and a vocabulary like a drunken sailor, hard drinking and hard fighting as any male agent he knew. He had liked her at once, and his opinion had never wavered.

She stepped back to let him proceed her into the conference room and pulled the door closed behind them.

"I can tell you what we've got, but it's not much. We have no motive yet, just modus - of course, an ATF agent can pick up a lot of enemies over the years. But if there is a tie in with the Meyers case, well, then that doesn't help us." She dropped the files on the table and studied his face keenly. "How bout you? You picked up any enemies over the years?"

Don shrugged. "Yeah, sure - how to narrow it down is the problem."

"Yeah." She nodded in understanding, leaning against the long table and crossing her arms.

Don dropped the evidence bag onto the files between them. "Where was it?"

"Taped to the television screen, right next to the body. Somebody was making sure we didn't miss it. Yours?"

"Propped against a coffee cup on the kitchen table - also right next to the body. Maybe not quite so pointed."

"Maybe somebody feels like they didn't get enough of a reaction with the first one."

"Yeah, well, if they could see inside my head, they'd know how wrong they are."

"Good." At his surprised look she continued vigorously, "I mean that you're taking it seriously. Don't be macho about this Eppes - there's something creepy about it."

"Tell me about it. Anything besides the MO tying the murders together?"

Wordlessly, she picked up the evidence bag and dangled the page in front of his face. He stared at it: the neatly cut edges, the black and white photo, the listed college major and activities, the quote about his future. He couldn't even remember what he'd selected. He dropped his eyes. "Yeah," he growled.

"So, your choice - I can turn the Alderman case over to you, or you can give me the Meyers case and I'll keep you in the loop about everything that we find."

"I'll take them both."

She grinned. "How did I know you were going to say that?"

Don returned the grin. "You calling me a control freak?"

She butted his shoulder with one of her own. "Never knew a decent team leader who wasn't. Oh, and Eppes?"

He looked up from collecting the files.

"If you need anything? You know where I work." She winked.

He'd given her a thumb's up and left.

He smiled at the memory, sliding the keys out of the ignition.

"Donnie!" He glanced up at the front porch to see his father standing there, hands on his hips. It reminded him of those days when he had come home late, pushing his curfew limit. Same stance, same expression. "Are you coming in, or are you going to spend the night in the car? The lamb chops will dry out!"

He elbowed the car door open. "Yeah - sorry." A phone message had been waiting for him when he got back to his desk after talking to Joan - from his father, inviting him to dinner tonight. _Lamb chops! _the familiar voice had offered in that overly-jocular tone that always meant he was a little worried, or asking if he should be, _bought too many! _

_Yeah, right. _The real message being, _I know something's not okay, but I don't know what to do for you. Except feed you. So come to dinner. _He had been yearning for a quick beer and as long a sleep as developments would allow, but he had hit redial and accepted anyway. Maybe it would relax him. Maybe, at least, it would relax his dad.

"You guys waited for me?"

"Well, I had to fight Charlie off the lamb chops, but I thought it would be nice if we all ate together." Light spilled onto the porch as he palmed the door inward. Don sighed inwardly at the bright contrast to the dusky gloom. _Days are getting shorter already._

"Do you know how long I've been sitting here smelling garlic and lamb?" Charlie defended himself from the living room. "It's inhuman. Can't you try to be late when we're having franks and beans?"

Don smiled slightly, shaking free of his jacket. "Suck it up, tough guy. Time and crime wait for no man."

"Yeah, well, next time it'll be lamb chops that wait for no man," Charlie retorted.

Alan paused with his hand on the door to the kitchen. "Big case?"

Don massaged a stiffness in his neck, wincing. "I don't know about big, yet. Screwy."

"Yeah?" Charlie put his books aside and dragged himself from the depths of the couch. "How so?"

"Oh, just - " Don gestured vaguely. "Two murders that look connected, but might not be connected."

"Connected. How?"

"Um - " Don watched his father enter through the swinging kitchen door with a platter of lamb chops. "MO, for one thing. Those look great, Dad. Anything I can help with?"

"You can pour the wine. Charlie's already opened the bottle. Charlie, can you grab the vegetable?"

"Sure." Charlie pushed through the door and returned carrying a large bowl. "So, what's the MO?"

"Bludgeoned to death." Don evened off the glasses and indicated the back of his head. "About - "

Alan cleared his throat. "As much as I'd love to hear about your day," he said pointedly, "do you think we can hold off on any conversations about _bludgeoning_ until after we've eaten?"

Don found a spot for the wine bottle on the table and shrugged at Charlie. "Yeah. Sure."

They seated themselves and dug in. The lamb chops were the best thing Don had tasted in…well, he couldn't really remember how long. But they were certainly a big improvement on the half-bagel for breakfast, and as for lunch…wait a minute, had he had lunch? _Guess that must have slipped by. _

'These are fantastic, Dad," he remarked, spearing another. _Tiny little things, though. _

"Glad you like them. It's a Moroccan recipe - let them marinate in all kinds of things for hours."

"Yeah - they're great," agreed Charlie, forking the last one with a pointed look at Don.

Don grinned. His ability to eat quickly was helpful on the job, but it had been honed at home in their lifelong battle over second helpings. He remembered their mother rolling her eyes as they argued over the last serving of…well, just about anything.

"I'm a growing boy!" Charlie had always protested, offering wide eyes.

"Growing. You wish," Don would inevitably retort. "At the rate you grow you shouldn't have to eat anything. Now me, on the other hand…" Don would flex a muscle proudly.

Charlie always eyed the bicep with practiced disdain. "Deep thinking takes a lot of fuel," he would explain. "Not that you'd know anything about _that_!"

"All right! I made plenty of food for everybody! Honestly, I don't know where you boys put it!" Mom would always jump in at the first sign of forks poised to be used as tiny catapults. "But the first boy to throw any kind of food-like substance leaves the table without seconds _or_ dessert."

"Dessert?"

Don's head jerked up, for one startled moment half-expecting to see his mother there. Instead he saw his father, watching him narrowly. "Donnie? Little too much wine?"

"One glass - " he pushed the empty wineglass away anyway. "Just tired, I guess. I had an early call. Why don't I clear?" He jumped to his feet. Activity was always a good idea when you were drifting.

"All right. I'll get the apple pie."

"Sounds good. Solomon's Bakery?"

"Mrs. Nussbaum brought it by. Said she made two and she thought you boys might enjoy one."

Charlie snickered and Don raised his brows at him questioningly.

"Mrs. Nussbaum has the hots for Dad," he explained with a smirk.

Alan gave Charlie a frosty glare. "Mrs. Nussbaum is not, as you so elegantly put it, "HOT" for me. She's just being a good neighbor."

Charlie shook his head, collecting the serving bowls. "She wants you, Dad. She wants you bad."

Don grinned. "Yeah? Really?"

"Your brother has an active imagination. Who wants ice cream with their pie?"

"It's no secret," Charlie confided. "Ask anybody. The only one who doesn't seem to know it is Dad."

"Mrs. Nussbaum, huh?" Don finished stacking plates. "Wow, Dad - can't say I'm surprised - you'd be considered quite a catch in some circles."

Alan switched his glare to Don. "I'd be considered a catch in _any_ circle, hot shot, but that doesn't mean that Mrs. Nussbaum is interested in me. Now let's stop taking our poor neighbor's name in vain and have dessert. The coffee should be ready too."

Charlie leaned across the table to Don and lowered his voice. "It's just that kind of bashful, modest attitude that gets to her, I think."

Don laughed, and Alan shot him a quelling glare. Don tried to dampen his grin, without any noticeable success. "Sorry, Dad. I mean, you're playing it just right - hard-to-get is definitely the way to go."

"Will you two clowns stop it?" Alan held the swinging door so they could proceed him into the kitchen with the dishes. "Or I won't be able to look the poor woman in the face next time I see her."

"That'll add to the whole bashful mystique," Charlie assured him.

Alan collected a small stack of plates and a pie. "I'm putting dessert on the table," he announced. "And if you stop right now, you might get some." He retreated to the dining room with vast dignity.

Don chuckled as the door swung closed behind him. "So. For real?"

"Cross my heart. Can't believe he can't see it." He watched Don scrape lamb bones into the trash. "So. These victims were bludgeoned?"

"Huh? Oh. Yeah." Don let the garbage can lid fall shut and stacked the plates in the sink. "Things they owned used as a weapon. One man, one woman."

"Anything I can do?"

"I don't know." Don turned on the faucet. "Only two murders - that give you enough to do something?"

Charlie hesitated, considering. "Probably not," he admitted. "Any other similarities?"

"Um - "

The door swung open and Alan stuck his head in. "Are you boys going to let me eat this whole pie?"

Don looked from Alan to Charlie, then back to Alan. "Just - some pieces of evidence that could be linked. Let's eat dessert."

Charlie followed his gaze. "Yeah, okay. Um - let me know if there's another one? That might give me enough to formulate a theory."

Don made a face, shutting off the faucet. "I'm kinda hoping there won't be a third."

"I know - I didn't mean…"

"Yeah. I know," Don followed him back into the dining room. "Pie smells good - sure you don't want to cultivate Mrs. Nussbaum, Dad?"

Alan didn't look up from moving slices onto plates. "You know, I could still eat yours."

Charlie watched him add ice cream. "Not if you're going to keep your figure - and I'm sure that's part of the attraction."

Alan raised the ice cream scoop threateningly in his direction and Charlie held up his hands to protect himself, laughing.

Don shifted a plate until it was in front of Charlie's chair and reached for another one for himself, just as his phone sounded. He fumbled for it with one hand, snagging a fork with the other. "Eppes."

Charlie and Alan fell silent, watching as Don scrubbed the heel of his hand slowly over his forehead. "Yeah. Okay. Uh - " he glanced at his watch. " - twenty minutes."

He replaced the phone and glanced up, his expression bleak. "Looks like we've got a third one."

_TBC_


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 5

Don pulled his SUV as close to the crime scene as he could manage, weaving it past a cluster of black and whites with their lights flashing, a crime scene unit truck, a coroner's van. He shut off the engine, fumbling on the seat next to him for his notebook, sighing with a combination of fondness and exasperation as his hand brushed a small tub of Tupperware instead. Of course he hadn't gotten away without a piece of pie, despite his protests that he didn't have time to wait for it.

"What, it's a murder, not a rescue, right? So what difference is a couple of minutes going to make?" Alan had reasoned.

"The first forty-eight hours of any homicide are crucial," Don had protested. "It's like there's this big clock ticking." He always felt that - glanced constantly and obsessively at his watch to see how much time he was losing.

"Two minutes. Two minutes won't make a difference." Alan had lopped off a generous section of the pie and hovered it over a square of Tupperware.

"Hey," Charlie'd objected. "Leave some for me. I need to keep my strength up, too."

"You're off for the summer," Alan pointed out.

"Yeah, but I'm preparing for fall classes _and_ working on my own research. Takes lots of energy."

"Summers off," Don watched his father seal the Tupperware, trying not to look impatient. "You got the good life, huh?"

"You should have gone into teaching."

"Yeah, there's a mental image." He shrugged into his jacket. "Besides, maybe it will give Mrs. Nussbaum an excuse to stop by with another one."

Alan narrowed his eyes warningly at him, then thrust the container in his direction. "It'll be a nice late night snack before you go to bed."

No point in explaining that there was no way of knowing whether or not late night would actually translate to "bed". Not without starting a whole new discussion he didn't have time for. "Yeah - thanks, Dad. And thanks for dinner." He had the door half-open.

"Say, Don - let me know if this third one brings anything - you know - that you think I could help with. Any tie-ins."

"Definitely." Don raised the hand with the car keys in farewell, juggling the Tupperware to the other hand. "Talk to you later." He hadn't added that he sure as hell hoped there were no tie-ins of a particular kind.

He pushed aside the Tupperware to grasp his notebook, shoving open the door and stepping out. Crime scene tape crisscrossed the small yard and he ducked under it, showing his badge. A figure moved from the darkness into the flood lights to meet him, and he recognized Megan's posture at once.

"Hey," she greeted him as she got closer.

He tried to read her expression in the shadows created by the flood lights, could see at once that his worst fears were realized.

"Don't tell me."

"Come on inside."

Wordlessly, he followed her over the threshold, blinking at the change from the dark outdoors to the brightly lit interior. He glanced around. "Where…?"

"Office." Megan indicated a small hallway with her thumb. The crowds clustered in activity got noticeably denser here, but they parted to let Megan and Don through. Maybe it was his imagination, but some of them seemed to be avoiding looking at him. Megan let him proceed her into the room, then almost ran into his back when he slammed to a stop just inside the door. He stared for a moment, taking everything in, then swallowed determinedly and moved forward, trying to re-focus himself into normal crime scene mode. He was concentrating so hard that it took him a second to realize that Megan was crouching next to him, reading from her notebook.

"Joseph Motta. We've had an eye on him as part of the Organized Crime Program, trying to get enough evidence for a solid link. He was discovered by a business associate - her words - but it looks like he'd been dead almost an hour - the ME says he'll be able to tell for sure after a full autopsy."

Don studied the blood drenching the carpet. "Bludgeoned."

"With a decorative figurine - we assume it belonged to the victim, but we won't be able to confirm that until after some forensic testing."

"Figurine. They already clean up the glass or porcelain shards…?"

"It was cast iron."

"Ouch." He frowned. "Business associate. What kind of business was he conducting at this hour…?"

"You or I would say 'prostitute'."

"Oh." Don almost smiled. "Where do I find her?"

"She's in the kitchen, being kept company by the LAPD. I'll show you."

Don stood slowly, forcing himself to look at the cork board above the body, then to do a 360, taking in the entire crime scene.

"So - what - um - " Megan jerked her head at the cork board.

Don looked again. _Detach. Detach. Come on, detach…_still, there was a twinge in his stomach and he looked away again. "High School yearbook. Kitchen?"

"This way."

He followed Megan to the back of the tidy bungalow, where it opened up into a cozy kitchen. At least, it had probably been cozy before the incongruous installation of two uniforms and a crime scene technician, Don mused. He held out his hand to the woman sitting next to one of the officers, her hair a startling shade of blonde and her face streaked with rivers of mascara. "I'm Special Agent Don Eppes of the FBI. And you're…?"

The woman sniffed and extended a porcelain nail-tipped hand. "Sheba Petts," she offered in a small voice. "Oh, Gawd, poor Joey!"

Don pulled out one of the vintage kitchen chairs and dropped into it. "I know you've had a terrible shock," he said kindly, "but I need to ask you a couple of questions. Is there anything we can get you? Coffee? A soda?"

She shook her head, wiping her nose on the back of her hand. "I - I couldn't. Joey. He was so good to me…"

Don was afraid the sight of his notebook might frighten her into silence, so he gave Megan a quick sideways glance and she slid hers out of her pocket instead. He returned his eyes to the witness. "So this wasn't your - eh - first business meeting with Mr. Motta?"

"Oh, no - " she dabbed at her nose again. "Every Wednesday at eight, just like clockwork. Joey was very exact. I think it's on accounta he's a CPA. They're very efficient." She sniffed. "I told him to stay away from those guys - that they were nothing but trouble - but he thought he was smarter, you know? And now look!" Her eyes brimmed.

"What "guys" are these, Ms. Petts?" Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Megan's pencil poised.

Ms. Petts frowned. "You know. The mob. Ain't never safe to truck with them. Always ends the same way. I told him. But he just wouldn't listen."

"The mob," Don repeated, leaning forward on his elbows. "What makes you think Mr. Motta was doing business with the mob?"

"He said." Ms. Petts blotted her nose on the lace of her sleeve this time. "Joked about it. Thought it was funny."

"Who did he say these men were?"

"He wouldn't say. _'Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies'_, he'd say." She wiped her eyes, then stopped suddenly, swaying forward to look more closely at Don. "Say…say! You're - you're the guy in that picture, right? Did you know Joey?"

Don felt his ears heat up. "Ms. Petts, I'm not allowed to discuss the details of an ongoing investigation…"

"Maybe he called you for help?" She leaned in eagerly. "I kept telling him to call somebody…"

Don pushed his chair back. "Ms. Petts, I'd like you to come back to the Bureau with me - answer a few more questions. Do you have a coat somewhere…?"

"Yeah…my wrap is on the couch…Joey got it for me. Genuine fox. He said it went with my hair…" Her eyes filled again and Don gently steered her back toward the living room. "Thanks." She gulped, then looked at him again, hard. "The picture's younger, though. Maybe you were friends. Were you guys friends? I can see Joey calling a friend."

"Ms. Petts…"

"Oh. Yeah." Ms Petts nodded vigorously. "You can't say. Right. I just like the idea of Joey havin' a friend."

Don lifted a hand to gesture to one of the uniforms, who came over to stand beside them. "This gentleman is going to give you a ride in. I'll meet you there, all right?" He spotted a silver fox jacket slung over the back of the sofa and glanced at one of the crime scene technicians to see if they were done with it. The technician nodded and he held it up for her.

"Thanks!" She beamed broadly, sliding silkily into the abbreviated coat. "Joey was like that - a gentleman." She produced a card from somewhere inside the jacket's depths and pressed it into Don's palm. "You're job seems real stressful," she hissed in a strident whisper. "Call me if you need to relax. I was real good at helping Joey relax."

Don managed to maintain his polite, calm smile by avoiding eye contact with absolutely everyone, especially Megan. She was much too professional to snicker, but he couldn't help noticing her sudden and inordinately intent attention to her pad. "I'll see you back at the Bureau," he smiled, lifting his brows meaningfully at the uniformed officer, who guided her politely but firmly toward the exit.

Don watched them leave, felt Megan's presence at his side, could tell she was getting ready to speak without even looking.

"Don't even," he pre-empted. "Not even a word. I'll meet you back there."

000

"Do you suppose _'Petts'_ is her real last name?" Colby stopped pacing to perch on the edge of a desk.

Don didn't lift his eyes from the monitor, where he was watching Megan question Ms. Petts. "About as likely as that her mother named her _'Sheba'_."

"Yeah. I guess nobody plans for their kid to grow up to be a prostitute."

Don shifted. "Ms. Petts is a call girl, not a prostitute. Maybe not a high class one, but a call girl nonetheless."

Colby rumpled his forehead. "What's the difference?"

"About two hundred bucks an hour," David cracked.

"What do you guys think about the mob connection?"

David frowned. "Maybe that's what somebody wanted to let you know about, and that's why they used you to tie the crimes together. ValCom had some pretty shady dealings."

"And Alderman had to have come into contact with the mob while he was working ATF," Colby suggested. "It's the closest thing to a tie we've got so far, except - "

"Except me," Don finished for him. "Yeah. David, since you're already deep into ValCom why don't you dig at that angle, and Colby, you take a harder look at Alderman - " He stood up as Megan entered, looking frustrated.

"I don't think she relates well to women," she explained dryly. "She wants to talk to Joey's friend."

Don sighed. "Okay, I'll see what I can get, but I hope she doesn't ask me anything personal about the guy since I've never seen him before in my life. Somebody come get me if the crime scene materials get here?"

"I will." Megan stood shoulder to shoulder with him, both watching Ms. Petts jiggle restlessly on the other side of the wall. She dropped her voice to a murmur. "Who knows - maybe she just wants to help you relax."

Don also dropped his voice, keeping his eyes on Ms. Petts. "You know, I'm keeping count of those - just in case you were wondering. I'll be evening the score."

Megan chuckled. "Big threats."

Don smiled as he reached for the door leading out of the viewing room. "I'm saying it's just a matter of time. So watch your back!"

Megan waited until the door closed behind him and his image appeared on the monitor screen before she turned to David and Colby. "Okay - this is bad. I almost lost my lunch when I saw that picture there - he has to be wigging."

Colby grimaced. "Yeah. I know how I felt when I saw that card. What was it this time?"

"Page from his High School yearbook."

"There's everybody's worst nightmare, huh? Having your High School yearbook photo show up in public?" David gave a weak smile.

"Yeah. Some things should stay dead and buried." Megan winced a little at her own choice of phrasing. "You guys have anything?"

"Don has us working on the mob connection. We thought whoever it is might just be trying to draw his attention to something like that."

"Maybe." Megan turned her eyes back to the monitor, watching Don question Sheba Petts. "Somebody sure went to a lot of trouble, though." She frowned. "Tell you what, while you guys work on finding a mob connection to all three, I'm going to start combing through Don's High School and college classes and Stockton Rangers team - see if there's any overlap there - anybody at all that shows up in all three places. At least we've all got an eye out for it now, and we'll get the call if another Don Eppes image shows up at a crime scene."

"They send around an APB with Don's photo?"

"Yeah, but so far - " Megan paused, thinking. "That's interesting. So far, Don's name appears on all the images anyway, in places where you can't miss it. I just can't get a sense of what it could mean."

"Not just his name," Colby interjected. "Personal stuff. His baseball stats, his college major and activities, High School info too, I'm guessing. Not exactly private since it's been published somewhere, but personal."

David let out a frustrated breath. "What about this one? Was it defaced at all? Slashed or written on?"

Megan shook her head. "No - neatly razored out of the book, and looked like an original, not a copy. How hard is it to get a copy of an old yearbook - if it's not your own? Guess that falls under my digging."

"So no sign of rage or anger."

Megan hesitated. "I don't know," she said at last. "Might be just - controlled anger. Obsession. Stalking. Something. No matter how you look at it, there's something not-too-benign about picking through somebody's past and then posting the images over a series of violently murdered bodies."

Colby made a face. "Which means whoever it is knows about the murders and has access to the crime scenes…"

"Or is doing the murdering." David finished.

They all turned automatically to stare at the monitor, just watching, having totally lost the thread of Don's line of questioning with Ms. Petts.

Colby slumped against a tabletop. "So either somebody's trying to tell him who did it…"

"Or somebody's holding him responsible," Megan finished quietly.

_TBC_


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: Now, where do you guys get the idea that I'm going to damage poor Don? Unless it's true that you always hurt the one you love…_

Chapter 6

Don had the ME's reports side by side in front of him. He had read them over a half dozen times, but he couldn't recall a single word. His eyes were drawn relentlessly back to the board where the three crime scenes were pictorially laid out in chronological order, his own youthful image flanking each body shot.

_Don Eppes, this is your life._

He thought he could have handled it if they had been current photos - he was used to seeing pictures of himself at crime scenes, in protective gear, carrying a weapon - it was seeing those early images of himself, so separate in his mind from his current life, intermingled with what he had become, that somehow stopped his breath in his throat every time he looked at them. Deep inside, he was starting to hate somebody for putting them together. He stopped gently rocking his chair from side to side, suddenly struck by a thought. _Wait a minute. _

"They're chronological."

"What's that?"

He glanced over at David's desk, realizing for the first time that he'd spoken aloud and remembering with a start that, while Megan was gone, Colby and David were still there.

Megan had taken off shortly after his return to the viewing room. He had opened the door with some force, almost as frustrated with his progress with Ms. Petts as Megan had been, only to see his entire team jump as he shut the door behind himself with a click. He'd leaned a shoulder into the wall to study their guilty expressions.

"So. I'm guessing nobody was actually following the interview? If you were going to play poker in here, you could at least have dealt me a hand."

"We were discussing the case," David had interjected hastily.

"Uh huh." Don straightened. "Should my ears be burning?"

"Maybe just a little toasted." Megan had tried on a smile. "I'm going to take a look at your high school and college classes and your Rangers team. Do you remember anybody at all who might have been connected to all three?"

Don shook his head. "Do my parents count? No, that's a good idea, Megan. I'm going to give Ms. Petts a ride home."

"I'll do it." Megan's smile had looked genuine this time. "I'd like to take one more crack at her. And I can't have you guys compromising your virtue for the job."

"I think you could put our collective virtue in a thimble, but thanks anyway. Let me know if you pry anything else loose. Not that I'm convinced there's anything else to pry."

"What's chronological?" David's patient voice brought him back to the present.

"Oh. The memorabilia. My pro-ball days, college, then High School. They're in backward order. Except Quantico's missing. Wonder if that's intentional, or if it's just too hard to get info from there?"

"Could be a coincidence," Colby pointed out.

"Yeah, well, I'm ready to shelve the whole coincidence aspect for now. Let's just assume nothing is a coincidence until we've got some kind of thread to follow. Consider everything significant." He caught sight of the clock on the opposite wall and whistled. "Man, it's late. I didn't realize. Why don't you guys take off? We'll start fresh in the morning."

He registered their mutual looks of weary relief and the beginning motions of packing up for the night before turning back to the board.

_Backward order. Maybe it meant nothing, but maybe it meant something_. Great, if this kept on long enough, everybody would probably get to enjoy his baby pictures, too. He turned away to take another stab at the coroner's report, was surprised to see David and Colby still at their desks, deep in work.

"I thought I told you guys to go home? Come on - it's late and we were all up early. We've beat this up enough for one day."

There was a moment of silence, then David cleared his throat. "Well…I have all this paperwork to take care of - nothing worse than facing a big stack of unfinished paperwork first thing in the morning."

"And I'm tired of him showing me up by having all his paperwork done first," Colby interjected. "Big kiss up."

Don blinked. "Since when? Come on - call it a night."

They both looked at him, then at each other.

"You leaving?" David asked calmly.

"Yeah - sure. I'll be right behind you. Just want to take a quick look at these coroner's reports."

David and Colby exchanged another look, then simultaneously returned to their paperwork.

Don wrinkled his forehead, puzzled, then leaned back in his chair as realization dawned. "Oh, okay - I get it. Look, guys, I appreciate it, but I'm a trained federal agent, packing a sidearm. In a secure federal building, full of other trained federal agents, also packing sidearms. I'll be fine. Go home. Get some sleep."

David cleared his throat again. "Here's the thing. Boss's Day is come and gone and I didn't get you a thing. So I figure it's the least I can do to make up for it."

"And I didn't even know there _was_ a Boss's Day," Colby contributed solemnly. "Imagine my feelings."

Don shook his head with half a laugh. "Okay, okay, I get the message - so if I don't go home, nobody goes home, is that it?"

David and Colby looked at each other again.

"Yeah," Colby nodded. "That's pretty much it."

"Okay - you win." Don flipped his file closed. "Grab your jackets and call an elevator. Let's get out of here." He was still half-smiling when the elevator let them off in the parking garage. "Um - this is it, right? You aren't planning to follow me home and tuck me in or anything?"

"No," David pointedly turned right to walk him to his car. "But a thoughtful person would call to say they got home all right."

"Man, you sound like my mother. I'll call." Don hit the button to unlock his car and shook his head again as they patiently waited until he was inside. He pushed the key into the ignition, then pressed the control to drop the window. "Oh, and guys?" He leaned out to catch their attention, and they paused in turning to go to their own cars. "If I see a card from either of one of you for Boss's Day? I'll shoot you both."

David smiled. "I was thinking more along the lines of flowers anyway."

Colby grunted in disgust. "See what I mean?" he complained. "A big kiss up."

000

"So, what have we got?" Don's voice sounded pallid, even to his own ears.

He had phoned David as soon as he'd stepped into his apartment last night, locking the door behind him and asking, a little sarcastically, if he was expected to call Colby as well. David, unfazed, had assured him cheerfully that he would let Colby know and had told him to sleep well. Which had certainly been his intention.

He had slipped into sweats and a t-shirt and flipped the top off of his long-awaited beer, sifting idly through the mail and carrying it with him to the back of the apartment, intending to skip the television he usually switched on to unwind and go straight to crashing instead. Of course, he'd have to finish his beer before he could brush his teeth…so he found himself digging into the closet in the meantime, looking for the box he mentally labeled "things too embarrassing to remember" and then dragging it out.

His yearbooks were near the bottom and he flipped through them one at a time, half expecting to find the pages with his photos on them cut out and missing. They were there, though, and intact - looking just like he remembered. Just like they did in the plastic evidence bags.

He closed the books slowly and stacked them with his mother's baseball album, returning the rest of the box to its place in the closet. They weren't exactly evidence, but they might jog something useful loose.

He left them on the nightstand when he finally turned out the light, switched on the light again a short time later and leafed through them once more, looking at the other faces now, trying to find one that appeared in both of them. The only even vague connection he could find was Charlie.

Yeah, maybe it's him, he told himself sarcastically, decisively clicking off the light this time and closing his eyes determinedly.

It was no use, though - images and memories crowded his brain, whirling much too fast to allow him to relax. In the small hours of the morning sheer stubbornness forced him to drop off at last, and a short time later his alarm roused him from a vague dream where his child-self wandered from bloody crime scene to bloody crime scene. He was half-relieved to be awake.

But now he was dragging, cruising on a hopeful wave of caffeine.

"You said they're chronological," David re-capped.

"All three lived alone," Colby put in.

"Yeah." Don added those to the list, then stepped back for a better view. "No sound to attract the neighbors for Motta, though. That's new."

"Ms. Petts said she had a standing appointment," Megan offered. "So if the killer knew that, then there'd be no need to attract the neighbors. She'd discover the body and call the police."

"Yeah, that's good." Don scribbled it under the others. "So it looks like he watched these people first. Found out about their habits. He or she?" He gave Megan a questioning glance.

Megan sighed. "Men still greatly outnumber women as perpetrators of violent crimes, but women are gaining, so we can't rule it out."

"Go, equality," Colby cracked.

"Yeah, makes a girl proud." Megan made a face. "And speaking of proud…nice hair, Don. Especially the bangs."

"Go ahead and laugh. I'll bet you had great, big hair and carried an economy-sized bottle of hair spray in your purse, just like every other girl I knew."

David and Colby both snickered and Megan glared at them. "I did not." She looked demure. "I had spiral curls."

"_No_." This time Don laughed. "Man, I'd give a lot to see that."

"Nobody is _ever_ going to see that."

"Yeah." Don blew out a slow breath. "That's what I thought."

There was an uncomfortable silence, then Colby jumped in hastily, "Hey, look on the bright side - at least it's not a mullet!"

Don and Megan both turned to look at him. "It was 1989, Granger, not 1982," Megan said a little indignantly. "Just how old do you think we _are_?"

Colby looked flustered and David leaned in to murmur, "This is where a wise man would take the fifth."

Colby grinned. "Yeah. I think I'm gonna take the advice of my lawyer, here."

Megan snorted.

Don pulled the High School yearbook page from the board and looked at it, moving to the nearest chair to sit down. "I brought in my old yearbooks for you, Megan, and a box of Stockton Ranger stuff…I didn't get anything out of it, but maybe you will." He studied the photo.

_Cocky kid - on the surface, at least. Underneath, kind of unsure. _Still…college. Striking out on his own. He'd been pretty excited. He turned the page over.

Charlie's photo was on the reverse side, with long hair tied back. It had faced Val Eng's in the yearbook - Charlie had told him he had believed it to be destiny. V. Eng and C. Eppes in a spread, turn the page and D. Eppes and…? He couldn't remember who, and he'd looked at it just last night. Nobody significant, then. He sighed. _High School. Did anybody ever really enjoy it? _

He stared at his own grinning image again - a kid with a baseball scholarship - turned it back over and looked at Charlie's - a kid heading to Princeton. Somehow, having Charlie's photo posted at a crime scene, even inadvertently and face down, bugged him even more. He wondered if he should tell him.

"Don?"

"Hm?" Don massaged one eye and then the other, willing them to work better. It took a second too long to recognize the questioning note of concern in Megan's voice. He stood up. "I'll get you those boxes." He made eye contact with first David, then Colby. "You guys keep plugging at Meyers and Alderman, okay?"

"What are you going to do?" Megan sounded just a little apprehensive.

"I'm going to try to track down Charlie." He ignored his own photos this time and looked from murder victim to murder victim to murder victim.

"You told Charlie about it?"

"Huh? Oh, no." Don grimaced. "I meant to, but my dad came in every time, and I'm just not ready to get into it with him, before I can answer any of his questions." Like, _what does it mean? I don't know, Dad. What are you doing about it? Everything I can think of. _He knew his father didn't mean to, but his concern sometimes felt a whole lot more like pressure. "But maybe I can get Charlie without Dad around. It's worth a shot." He went to the board and replaced the photo page, stepping back to look at it. "Who knows? With a little luck, he might have a few more blue houses up his sleeve for me."

_TBC_


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: Thanks for hanging in there with me._

Chapter 7

Don listened to the steady ring of the cell phone in his ear as he pulled out into traffic. Somehow, he felt better just to be driving away from FBI Headquarters. He hit a button to let the window descend. Maybe all he really needed was a little air. The ringing stopped in mid-tone. "Hey! Charlie!"

"Don?" Charlie's voice sounded muffled, and Don tried to imagine whatever experiment he might be involved in this time.

"Yeah. You got a minute? I wanted to bounce a couple of things off you - thought you might have some ideas for me."

"On your case?" Charlie's voice sounded clearer this time, as if he was climbing out from under something.

"Yeah." Or maybe he was cleaning out the garage? "Where are you, exactly?"

"CalSci."

"Oh." Don was silent while he negotiated a lane change. "I thought school didn't start up for another couple of weeks?"

"It doesn't, but that doesn't mean that I don't have to prepare. What do you think teachers do before school opens?"

"I don't know. Guess I always tried not to think about teachers at all unless they were standing right in front of me. Now a good time?"

"Now's fine. Was the one last night the same MO?"

Don winced. "Yeah. Pretty much the same. I'll be there in about ten, okay?"

"See you then."

Don hit "end" and put the cell phone on the seat next to the empty Tupperware container. Maybe he should make time to stop for some real food? Apple pie made a handy breakfast, but it was probably missing some of the basic nutrients. He saw his exit looming and decided against it. _What the heck. It had fruit, right? And the crust was some kind of carbohydrate?_ He could almost hear his mother's tongue-click of disgust at his reasoning and smiled. She sure seemed to be on his mind lately. _It's all this stuff about the past. _

_The past. _He wheeled his SUV down the approach to CalSci. Maybe that's where the answer was - if only he could get ahold of it… Somebody trying to help him? Someone asking for help? …Something more sinister?

He turned into the parking lot and made a face. Man. Was every teacher in the world here already? He was going to have to park in - like - Gdansk. He pulled into a parking place marked "faculty" and turned off the engine. _What the heck. _If Campus Security tried to give him a ticket, he'd flash his badge. He could almost hear his mother's tongue-click again. _Yeah, I know, Mom - total abuse of power. But I'm too tired to split hairs right now. _

He jogged up the steps of the math building. The inside hallway was cool and quiet and his spirits brightened some. This had been a good idea.

Hope you can do that magic that you do, Chuck, he thought as he rounded a corner. Because at this point, I think I'm too close to it to see anything.

He knocked a brief tattoo on Charlie's office door and rode the handle inside. "Hey, Charlie, I - " He stopped abruptly. _Oh. _"Hey, Larry."

_Larry. _He didn't know why he was surprised to see him there - whenever he visited Charlie, he was there as often as not. So often, in fact, that he occasionally wondered when the heck either one of them had time to do any teaching. Struggling to regain his mental equilibrium he stammered, "What are you boys up to?"

"Contemplating the potential of another academic year," Larry intoned pleasantly. "It's always most exciting just before you find out _exactly_ what you have to work with, and _exactly_ what you're up against."

"Sounds like starting another case." Don picked up a koosh from a bowl on Charlie's desk and tossed it from hand to hand. _Charlie kept a lot of great toys in here_. Someday he'd have to ask him if they really had anything to do with math, or if they were just something for him and Larry to play with while they talked.

"Speaking of cases, that's what you're here about, right?" Charlie stood up from his spot on the floor, dusting off the seat of his jeans.

Don paused. "Sort of." He had spent half the morning trying to think of how he was going to tell this to Charlie; now with Larry here, he felt obscurely embarrassed to get into it, and oddly guilty. He tossed the koosh in the air this time and caught it.

_Damn. This was stupid._ He had nothing to be embarrassed about, and he certainly had nothing to feel guilty about. Of course, knowing it and feeling it were two different stories. _Come on, Eppes - Victimology 101 - the victim always feels responsible. It's usually your job to reassure them that it's not their fault. You're pretty good at it, too - so let's try some of that handy patter on yourself._ He winced. Tough to do when you were already cringing away from the label "victim". He certainly wasn't a victim in the same sense as Meyers and Alderman and Motta…they were dead. He was just…what was he? An accessory after the fact? A target? He couldn't tell yet. He hitched himself half onto Charlie's desk, bouncing the koosh lightly in his palm.

"What happens to yearbooks around here anyway - do you know?"

"Yearbooks?" Charlie frowned quizzically. "What about them?"

"Well, they must print an overrun, right? More than one per student? What happens to the rest? Are they archived? Are they tossed? Where do they go?"

Charlie dropped into his desk chair. "I have no idea. They don't exactly fall under my academic area. That's what you wanted to talk to me about? Yearbooks?"

"Not just that, but - can you find out for me? Megan's looking into it on a broader level, but I'd like to know if it differs from school to school."

Larry screwed his face into a frown. "Why on earth would the FBI be interested in - _yearbooks_? An innocent commemorative of academic nostalgia?"

"Yeah, well, you'd be surprised what some people can turn into a weapon." He pushed away from the desk and wandered the perimeter of the room, rolling the koosh between his hands. "What if you wanted to find out about somebody - their past. What would you do?"

Charlie folded his arms and tilted his head at him. "Don, you work for the FBI - you have access to some of the most sophisticated databases in the world."

"I don't mean me." Don stopped walking to look at him. "I mean, how would somebody else? Somebody not FBI?"

Charlie raised his brows. "Then that would depend on the somebody."

"Okay, say Joe Average. Let's start there. How far could just your average guy get in piecing together somebody's past?"

Charlie shook his head. "Then it would depend on the person he was researching."

Don turned away again, walking the line of the back wall. "For example, how about somebody like - me."

"Like you." Charlie nodded. "Well, anybody with a computer could start with Google. Have you ever Googled yourself?"

Don stopped again. "No. Why would I do that?"

Charlie shrugged. "A lot of people do. Curiosity, I suppose. You wouldn't be too hard to find."

"Me." Don watched his face. "You I can see, because you're published. Why me?"

"Well, for one thing, your name - Eppes. It's not that common. If your name was something like Don Jones, it would be much harder, because there are so many - it's hard to predict if yours would ever come up in a search, depending on what the other Don Joneses had done to distinguish themselves or to make their records more search-prominent. A search engine works like - "

Don held up a hand. "Yeah, Charlie - thanks. I actually get that part. You said that was one thing. What else?"

"Well, do you have a blog?"

"A - ? What is that?"

Charlie smiled. "A sort of online journal. People post their thoughts and the details of their day - all kinds of things."

Don looked at him in disbelief. "Right online? Where anybody can read them? Why would anybody do that?"

Charlie shrugged. "My students love them."

"The age of privacy is past, Don - " Larry explained. "And the age of notoriety is upon us. With the burgeoning pace of technology - "

"Yeah - I can see." He liked Larry, even found his philosophical rambles entertaining, but sometimes you had to cut him off at the pass or he would wander so far from the original point that he couldn't find his way back. And he took you with him. "That should make my job easier - people can confess right online. You got one of these things?"

Charlie gave him a look. "Me? No."

Don chuckled. "Guess it would all be in numbers anyway. What if you don't have a blog? What then?"

"Then…it becomes mostly a matter of past - and probability. If we're still using you as an example, you'd come up under the Stockton Rangers, for instance."

"Stockton Rangers." Don stopped, the koosh squeezing flat in his fist. "What makes you bring them up?"

"Because it's a public domain you're likely to be listed under. That, and any newspaper articles you've appeared in - I'm assuming it's not possible for just anybody to access FBI files."

"Sure shouldn't be." Don released his death grip on the koosh, using one finger to coax it back into shape. "So, if somebody couldn't reach the classified documents they wanted, they might resort to what they could find."

"It'd be a place to start." Charlie eyed him curiously. "There identity theft involved in these murders or something?"

Don returned to the desk and seated himself on the corner again, releasing the koosh from captivity and rolling it back into the bowl with its brothers and sisters. "Something like that."

"Did you bring me any files…?"

"I didn't wait for somebody to make copies." _Yeah, that sounded convincing_.

Charlie leaned forward to rest his elbows on the desk. "Well, you said there was one man and one woman, bludgeoned to death with objects they owned…"

"Two men and one woman now. All bludgeoned - one with a wine bottle, one with a golf club, one with a cast iron figurine. The murders all look planned, but they all used weapons of opportunity. All three lived alone. Two were discovered by neighbors - the intent of the murderer, who created a sound disturbance to attract attention; the third was discovered by a regularly scheduled visitor - a call girl. Our guess is the murderer knew she was coming and so didn't bother to attract attention another way."

Charlie wrinkled his forehead. "So he _wants_ you to find the bodies?"

"Seems that way."

"Any other similarities between the victims?"

Don hesitated, then dropped his eyes to the edge of the desk. "Yeah - there's - um - " _Just me, Charlie. No idea how, but pictures of me keep showing up at the scene. Oh - and yeah - thanks to our High School yearbook, you made a cameo appearance too. Fun, huh?_ Somehow, the words just wouldn't push themselves past his lips.

This isn't helping, he lectured himself sternly. You're trying to solve a string of murders. Relationships between the crime scenes are what Charlie needs to help you. Your face is one of the relationships between the crime scenes.

_But Charlie is my little brother - how well will he be able to keep his distance once he knows? I'm sure not doing a great job of keeping mine. _He frowned suddenly. And maybe that's just what this perp has in mind.

"Don?" Charlie prompted, and this time there was a distinct question in his voice.

Don shook himself mentally. He wanted to think about that one a little more. "Uh - David and Colby are looking for a possible mob connection - the third victim was under our watch for doing business with the mob. The first victim was a federal witness, the second was a retired ATF agent."

"So they were all federal crimes," Larry observed.

Charlie glanced at him. "Well, they would have to be Larry," he pointed out. "…or Don wouldn't be working on them."

Don looked from Larry to Charlie in surprise. "No, that's - I mean, you're right, Charlie, but - huh. Sometimes something is so obvious that it's too obvious to notice."

Larry beamed. "Spoken like a true scientist, Don. The ability to observe the obvious with new and unbiased eyes is at the very _heart_ of scientific discovery."

Don laughed wryly. "Well, my High School science teachers would be pretty surprised to hear that."

"But science is in itself a form of investigation." Larry's hands levitated to punctuate his points. "There's actually a theory that the main reason there were so few women in the early scientific community was that their constant involvement with every day objects blinded them to the objects' other potentials. Take the steam kettle and the steam engine, for instance - "

Don and Charlie glanced at each other and exchanged covert smiles. Don shot a surreptitious look at his watch.

"That's - that's - that's really interesting, Larry - " Charlie tried to interject before Larry could get too far. "But I think Don has to get back."

"Yeah, sorry - I should." _Because now I have two things to think about. And I'd like to run them past Megan._ He slid to his feet. "Can you play with what I gave you, Charlie? See if you come up with anything?"

Maybe that was better anyway. Maybe adding his face to the mix would only be a distraction for Charlie - like those women Larry was talking about. Maybe adding an every day object would only blind Charlie to what was really going on - exactly like it was starting to blind him. He could really use an unbiased eye right now - somebody with a clear head.

"I'll do everything I can. But if you can get me a more complete file, that would be a big help."

"Yeah. I'll get somebody right on it." It wasn't exactly a lie - he'd look at the file and send over everything that made sense. "Oh - and let me know what you find out about the yearbooks?"

"Yearbooks." Charlie shook his head. "I'll see what I can do. The things I do for you."

Don grinned. "Think of all the good karma you're accumulating."

"Yeah. I'm going to expect payback in something a little more tangible than karma. You stopping by tonight?" He trailed Don as far as the door.

Don paused, leaning into the lintel. "I don't know, Charlie…depends on where this goes. What, you need help protecting Dad from Mrs. Nussbaum?"

Charlie quirked his brows. "She dropped off a heck of a stollen this morning. Be a shame for you to miss it. Especially since she keeps insisting they're for us."

"For _us_." Don shook his head. "She knows I don't even live there, right?" He started down the corridor and Charlie kept step.

"Well, it's an honest mistake."

Don gave him a look. "Hey, who just asked me to come over?"

Charlie's mouth curled into a smile. "I just don't want to be the only one she uses as a cheap ploy. Makes me feel tawdry."

Don laughed. "I'll see what I can do."

"Okay - and let me know if you come up with any other connections? On the murders, I mean."

Don paused at the entrance, his hand on the door, feeling guilty again, but for a whole different reason.

Maybe he should…? Was he being an agent or a brother? He couldn't even decide what made sense any more. What he needed was to get his head clear somehow.

"Yeah," he agreed, after a pause that felt much too long. "Yeah. I will."

As he started down the steps, the tongue-click in his head returned, louder than ever. He made a face.

_Shut up, Mom._

_TBC_


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: Wow, you guys are…well, maybe not worse…but as bad…as I am. Bear with me and hopefully you will not feel that your patience is unrewarded. I'm sorry about the delay, but between the site being down and me being on the road, I am running behind. I hope to have the next up faster to make up for it._

Chapter 8

"Megan. Hey."

Megan gestured a greeting, her attention still on the telephone receiver pressed against her ear. She finished her conversation and cut the connection before looking up. "How did things go with Charlie?"

"Okay. He's looking at a couple of things for me. I asked him to find out about the yearbooks, too. About now, I think he thinks I'm nuts."

"Yeah - I can relate to that. I can just imagine what people are thinking when I say, _'This is the FBI and we want to know what you do with your old yearbooks'_."

Don laughed. "Yeah."

"So, um - " Don could sense Megan moving closer as he flipped through a file, mentally cataloguing what he should make copies of for Charlie. "If Charlie thinks you're nuts, I assume you stopped short of full disclosure?"

Don turned another page in the file, as if looking for an answer he liked better than the truth. "Yeah," he admitted at last.

"You really think that was a good choice?"

Don let his eyes drift to the board covered with notes, photos, theories. "No idea."

On the drive back he had decided that he needed to do exactly what he had done with Charlie - exorcise himself from the equation. Oh, not the existence of the memorabilia - that would just be sloppy - but to try to see it as some neutral FBI agent, someone other than himself. He let his eyes slide over his own past images again and flinched. _Easier said._ But he was going to have to find a way, or turn the case over to another agent.

Merrick had actually been waiting for him on his return, to broach that very question. _Did he really think he was the person to be handling this at this point? Were he and his team truly able to maintain objectivity?_ His conversation with Charlie and Larry had crystallized some things and he had requested, first politely, then more emphatically, to be allowed to hang onto the case for now.

"If somebody's trying to get my attention and you pull me off, who knows what they'll do," he had pointed out.

"Maybe what they really want is to make sure you're _not_ on the case," Merrick had countered.

Don had shaken his head. "I don't think so. For one thing, the other three murders happened within a twenty-four hour period, and as far as we know, so far there hasn't been a fourth. That's the longest time between murders yet. I'm hoping that means that, for now anyway, whoever it is, is satisfied. I don't want to upset that."

"Could be that upsetting him will force his hand - give us an opening."

"Yeah - by killing somebody else. No thanks."

"Could be that's not the connection at all."

"True, but I'm not ready to take the chance. What about you?"

Merrick had finally agreed to let them keep the case for now, demanding more regular updates and citing the option of pulling them if he thought it best.

Don had breathed a huff of relief and thanked him, careful to sound appropriately grateful and compliant.

Terry had once remarked that Merrick was threatened by Don because he knew he had run his own office. He had protested that Merrick was just doing his job, but had always made an extra effort to be respectful and patient - just in case. Most times he felt they had gradually found a way to work comfortably together, and today seemed to confirm that. A big relief. Because ugly as it was, he still felt his team had the best shot at cracking this, and he still felt that any insider information he unwittingly possessed could only help.

"You know Charlie works best with lots of data."

Don glanced at Megan. "I know. I also know he works better when he's not emotionally involved - we all do. My objectivity is already compromised and so is the rest of the team's - I want to see what we can get from somebody outside of that. If it doesn't pan out, I'll give him the rest." _Please God, let this pan out. I'd rather be discussing this with Charlie afterward, anecdotally, over a beer and a ballgame. When we can laugh about it. _

Megan just looked at him, and he continued, "Look, one other time somebody used my personal stuff to distract me from what was really going on - I want to make sure that doesn't happen again. Larry and Charlie mentioned a connection that I hadn't thought about - these are all federal crimes."

Megan looked at him curiously. "Well, they would have to be. I mean, for you to be involved."

"Not necessarily. Odds are the LAPD would have run my name from the yearbook page through the system and come up with my identity - then we might have muscled in on the strength of that. But making the connection with the baseball card would have been more hit or miss, and it certainly would have taken longer. If somebody wanted me onboard in a hurry, they would have to make sure it fell under my immediate jurisdiction - somewhere that I'd be readily recognized."

"Well, that would certainly go along with drawing attention to the bodies. Of course, that means that we have to be just as careful of not getting distracted the other way - of not overlooking your personal connection in favor of the murder victims'."

"Right. That's why I feel strongly that we have to keep focusing on all points - take every nuance seriously. If we do this right, we might be able to stop it before somebody else dies."

"Unless he's moved past that point, into another pattern."

"Yeah. That's what's worrying me. What do you think the odds are? You're the behaviorist."

Megan made a face at the board. "He's been so specific and consistent so far - it's hard to imagine him veering off. Unless he has another pattern that makes sense to him that we can't see."

Colby and David entered the bullpen, shucking their coats, and Don broke off to address them. "Hey. You guys make any progress?"

Colby tossed his jacket over his chair. "Well, turns out Alderman was in charge of a big mob bust about three years back. I'm digging into that one, seeing if it holds any water."

Don nodded, "Good. David?"

"ValCom definitely had some messy dealings, but I haven't been able to connect them to the mob in any way. And Meyers looks squeaky clean. Just another accountant."

"Accountant." Don frowned. "You mean like Motta?"

"Yeah, now that you say it - we didn't have Motta yet when I started that angle."

"Well, it's still pretty thin, but check with her supervisor - or better yet, her accounting records should have been seized with the rest of the financial files - see if forensic accounting can find anything. If not, I'll have Charlie take a look." He hesitated. "There's something else I should talk to you about."

They exchanged uneasy glances at his tone, but waited.

"Merrick asked me if we should be on this case. I made a strong bid to hang onto it, because I'm concerned that if I'm off, the killer will do something dire to get my attention back. The same doesn't apply to the rest of you. If anybody feels they can't operate at optimum strength on this investigation due to the personal nature of the material, tell me now and I'll pull you. There will be no repercussions, personally or professionally. Joan Gretski and her team have expressed an interest in the job and they're excellent agents - the investigation will still have strong support without you, so feel free to come clean with me." There was a pause, and Don tried to keep his expression neutral, hoping to make it easy for them.

Colby scowled. "What, you mean give somebody else our case? Especially this one? Don, this is about one of our own."

"I know I can personally attest to my ability to maintain my objectivity," David agreed, his expression calm.

Don turned his eyes to Megan.

"I think you're just afraid to let us see any more of your past hairdos," she drawled. "No way am I losing my chance at that."

Don looked from one to the other, his throat suddenly tight. _Whew._ "Okay," he managed after a minute. "Thanks."

"I can't believe you'd even think about letting somebody else do this one," Colby grumbled reproachfully.

Don grinned. "Yeah, well, if I don't see somebody doing some work pretty soon, I still might - come on, let's go, let's go, let's go!"

David dropped his eyes and smiled. "Yes, sir. I'll get down to forensic accounting right away."

Colby shook his head, one corner of his mouth twitching suspiciously. "I'm on that mob case."

Megan turned back to her computer." And I've found another possible source for old yearbooks."

Don wandered over to look over her shoulder. "Oh, yeah? What?"

She shifted, a little uncomfortable. "Um…eBay," she muttered, half under her breath.

Colby perked up. "What was that?"

Megan didn't even look up. "You heard me. Don't be smug, Granger, it's not attractive."

"Yeah," Colby leaned back in his chair, his fingers still rippling over the keyboard. "I _told_ you you could find anything there."

"Just what I want to hear - that my personal life is being traded on eBay," Don smiled, returning to the board, walking his way through all the notes, searching for inspiration. Maybe there was a mob connection in here - or something else - something they weren't seeing. He sure hoped so. Otherwise, he was going to have to face the other option - the thought that he had been trying, by sheer bull-headedness, to push away all day.

That three innocent people might have been brutally murdered because of him.

000

_Nine PM. _Don carefully breathed a gust of relief. _Over twenty-four hours since the last murder._ Maybe they were headed to something else - something worse - but for now, he was going to take this as good news. His phone rang and he reached for it. "Eppes." He listened for a minute. "Yeah - okay. Why don't you guys call it a day? There's nothing new here." Megan raised her brows at him questioningly and he rolled his eyes. "Yeah - I'm sure Megan will walk me to my car, Mom. Get some sleep. You'll need it tomorrow. Colby too. Okay. Thanks, guys." He replaced the receiver.

Megan moved closer. "No luck?"

Don shook his head. "According to Meyers' supervisor, she was pretty much an ideal employee - punctual, thorough, quiet, kept to herself. No big changes in her current lifestyle, and she was one who stood to lose a lot from the crash of ValCom, not gain. How bout you? Find out anything?"

"Yeah - that Colby's right - people will sell about anything on eBay. I did find somebody who sold a set of four yearbooks from your High School that overlap with your years there - eBay is doing a trace on the buyers for me. They'll let me know as soon as they have names."

Don tried to ignore the return of that funny quiver in his stomach. "Well, that's progress. I told David and Colby to head home - maybe it's time you did the same."

Megan smiled. "You also told David I'd walk you to your car."

Don looked at her. "That was a joke."

"Yeah, but he'll ask me in the morning over the coffeepot. Humor me just so I don't have to face that disappointed look of his."

Don switched off his lamp. "Double-teaming me? You guys are something else."

Megan picked up her jacket. "You headed to Charlie's?"

"I was actually thinking of the gym." A good workout might clear his head. At the very least, it might save him from another night like last night - lying awake, running things endlessly through his head. He would no doubt think better with a little downtime - getting it was the problem.

"Late," Megan pointed out, nodding her head at the clock.

"Yeah, but they're open, and it will help me work off some steam. If the batting cages were open, I'd go there." His eyes went automatically to the baseball card taped to the board and he frowned. _Or maybe not. Damn it, I hope this hasn't tainted everything forever._ "How bout you?"

"Bed, for sure. And maybe I'll grab something on the way home. Dinner was less than satisfying."

Don glanced at the remains of his own sandwich in the trash. "I hear you. Next time maybe we'll make ourselves leave the building."

"Charlie have any luck so far?"

Don shook his head. "Not enough data. Colby and David are seeing if they can't get some personal timelines together for Meyers, Alderman and Motta - see if there's enough for him to apply that pattern disruption thing he used for the Yates case." He looked at the clock again. _Over twenty-four hours since the last murder, over thirty-six since the first one. Not promising. _His stomach clenched and he took a deep breath, trying to force himself to relax. _One step at a time. But I just hate waiting around for the next move. _

"Don?" Megan's voice intruded gently. "You ready?"

He shook himself and stood. "Yeah. Come on, walk me to my car." She gestured him ahead of her and he scowled. "Makes me feel like a felon."

Megan chuckled. "I could cuff you."

This time Don half-smiled. "Promises, promises."

_TBC_


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: Man, send a guy to the gym for a little R&R and everybody thinks you have nefarious motives! _

_And thank you for all the lovely feedback. I work very hard to keep the characters as they are in the show, so that's the best compliment of all to me. And if I could dump it out of my brain onto the paper without all that nasty typing, I'd be a happy camper. Or maybe not - the writing really is half the fun. That, and finding out that you enjoy it._

Chapter 9

The gym lobby was bright, almost garish, after the darkness outside, and Don glanced automatically at the clock over the counter. He'd give himself about an hour, then he'd head home. A stiff workout and a hot shower and he'd be ready for his first good night's sleep in…_yeah, okay. Better not to count how long. That never helped_.

He glanced around impatiently. Where was whoever was supposed to be manning the counter? _Come on, guys - I could have smuggled in twenty free guests by now. _Of course, he could always go right to his locker then hit the machines instead, but all the way over he had been looking forward to a little bag work and he wasn't quite ready to give up on the idea yet. He tapped the bell on the counter and waited.

"Hey. Agent Eppes." A tousled brown head poked around the corner, followed by a long, lanky body.

"Hey, J.D. I thought I told you to call me Don?"

"Yeah." J.D. leaned on the counter. "But _'Agent Eppes' _is cooler. You takin' a break from the secret agent stuff?"

Don fought down a smile. "I'm not a secret agent, J.D., I'm an FBI agent. Nothing secret about it. They got you all alone on the graveyard shift?"

"…yeah…not too many clients in at this hour and it pays a little more. Good for my tuition bill. Something I can get you? Gatorade, maybe?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of a set of gloves - I wanted to use the bag room, if it's free."

"At this hour? You got it all to yourself. Want a speed bag, or will the heavy bag be enough?"

"Speed bag. I want to use both. And now that you say it, that Gatorade sounds like a good idea, too."

"Great." J.D. pulled some boxing gloves and a speed bag from under the counter and pushed them across with sign-out sheet and a pen. "I'll get the Gatorade." He turned to the cooler behind him. "Sorry I took so long - I'm practicing for my Tai Bo class and I guess I had the music up a little loud. You workin' on a big case?"

Don scrawled his name on the equipment sign out sheet. "J.D., you know I can't talk about…"

"…an open case. Yeah, I know - sorry. It just sounds so cool."

Don's smile grew strained. _God. _Had he ever been that innocent? "It's not cool. Believe me."

"I didn't mean…you know…"

"Yeah. Sure." Don pushed the sheet back across the counter and dug through his pocket for money. "You still thinking about going for CHP?"

"Yeah," J.D. handed him the Gatorade. "My Mom's havin' a fit."

"They always do." Don twisted the top off the bottle and took a swallow. "Let me know if you're serious - I can hook you up with some people."

"Cool." J.D. beamed. "They keep as crummy hours as you?"

Don grinned. "Pretty much. Criminals just don't seem to have any respect for the nine to five thing."

J.D. made a face. "Great. Say, I'm goin' back to work on my Tai Bo - if you need anything, you can find me in the gym, okay?"

Don nodded, scooping up his gloves and his speed bag. "I'll see you later."

The locker room was empty, so he took his time peeling off his work clothes and slipping into track pants and tank top and running shoes. He grimaced at his shirt as he hung it on the hook in the locker. He really needed to squeeze in a trip to the dry cleaner. Some smart somebody should open a 24 hour one - in the right part of town, they'd do a killer business. Heck, they could make a fortune on him alone.

He fastened his left glove then stuffed his other hand into the right one, using his teeth to pull the laces tight. Probably he should get J.D. to tie it for him, but there was something satisfying and primal about wrestling with it himself. He shoved the locker door closed and made sure the lock caught before picking up his speed bag and Gatorade and heading to the bag room.

He passed the gym on his way and smiled at the decibel level of the music echoing through the closed doors. It reminded him a little of Charlie and his headphones, and he made a mental note to call Charlie when he got home, if it wasn't too late.

The bag room was as empty as J.D. had promised and he hung his speed bag then turned to the heavy bag, finding a spot he liked before pivoting and driving his fist deep into the leather side. _Oh, yeah. This was going to be good. _

He danced around the bag, circling it, attacking it, hitting it again and again, his shoulders vibrating with the force of the blows, sweat spraying the floor. _That's for Meyers. And Alderman. And Motta…lying in a pool of blood with their skulls crushed, always, always struck from behind, you miserable coward_… And for the photos from a time when he had been as young and almost as innocent as J.D. that hung above them - like a signature…or something else…something worse that he couldn't quite get his brain around…his fist shot out again. And again. And again - harder and harder, until his breath dragged through his lungs in great whooshing gasps, and he finally had to bend over and rest his gloved hands on his knees to quiet it. He closed his eyes, feeling the sweat stinging beneath his lids, and maybe something else, too - swabbed at his forehead with the gloves, then reached for his towel and buried his face in it, leaning into the bag and letting it soak up sweat and grief and strangled breaths, his shoulders shaking. He wasn't sure how long he stood there with the bag in a pseudo-embrace before the paroxysm slowed and he forced himself upright again. He blotted at his eyes, scrubbing the towel over his face, the back of his neck, the exposed skin at his neckline, sniffed, breathing cautiously, testing himself. _Okay. Maybe you needed that. But it's done now. _

He took a gulp of Gatorade and faced the speed bag. This one demanded a different kind of skill and he started slow, finding his rhythm, switching from one hand to the other. The heavy bag had emptied his brain, but this one helped him think, the precision of the motion and timing getting him focused. He pressed his lips together hard and listened to the steady rat-a-tat-tat of leather on leather. _Three murders in twenty-four hours. Somebody playing with your head. So it's up to you not to let them. You need to get a grip, Eppes, or more innocent people could die, just to make sure you're paying attention. Wallowing in guilt isn't going to help, it will just serve his purpose - distract you from what you need to do - what you need to know. From what you maybe already know. _He slowed his steady patter on the ball, thinking about that.

_High School. College. Stockton Rangers. How do those things tie together? _Or were they just images of himself that somebody could get ahold of easily? And if so, why? What did they want from him?

He slowed to a stop, one hand resting on the bag to keep it from swinging back at him. That was the $64,000 question all right, and he didn't feel any closer to the answer now than he had when he had first looked at that baseball card at Meyers' apartment. He drew in a deep breath and blew it out again, then chewed the laces of the right glove free and untied the left, lifting the speed bag down. He'd take a shower. He'd call Charlie when he got home - see if he had an inkling. Get some real sleep. And maybe in the morning, some of the pieces would start to make something like an understandable picture.

He gathered up his things and paced the short distance to the locker rooms, dumping everything on a bench and cranking the shower as high as it would go.

_That's one nice thing about working out at this hour - no competition for the hot water. _Just as well, too - he was going to need more than his share - his clothes were glued to him like a second skin. He peeled them off and threw them on the bench next to everything else and stepped into the steamy cubicle. The water peppered his flesh, hot and angry, and he leaned into it, letting it wash over him, the moist air scalding his lungs. He was going to feel this workout tomorrow, but that was okay - just a little pain to keep him alert and banish the numbness. He let the water sluice over him until he realized he was starting to nod off right in the shower, then he shut it off and reached for his towel, patting himself all over and wringing his hair into some semblance of order. He climbed back into his shoes and slacks and undershirt, abandoning his shirt until he could get it to a dry cleaner, and fastened his belt, checking the equipment automatically. A look at his watch stunned him with how easily his planned hour had stretched to two. Maybe it was too late to call Charlie after all - tomorrow morning would be soon enough. He'd turn in his gloves and bag and head on home, where his bed was suddenly sending out a siren's call.

He picked up his jacket and gloves and speed bag and exited the locker room, traversing the short hallway to the small gym, where the music told him J.D. was still working. As he got closer, the sound seemed even louder than before, earsplitting, an almost physical presence pounding at the entry door, and he had to resist the urge to cover his ears. _How could anybody think with it that loud? _He grinned and shook his head. _I sound like Dad used to_. _I must really be getting old. _

He pushed his way through the double doors, calling out, "Hey, J.D., keep playing your music like that and by the time you're my age - "

He broke off abruptly, frozen, his heart suddenly slow and loud and too big for his chest, crowding the oxygen out and leaving him airless. Then he was moving forward in an action that was all about training and habit and nothing about conscious thought, because his mind had stopped dead - careened to a halt at the first sight of the rooster tail of blood sweeping the mirror and speckling the adjacent wall, the dark, almost black pool congealing on the shiny wooden floor.

_No…no…_he had been…in his mind, he kept seeing some version of this, all day long, over and over, so maybe…maybe…it was just…it was just one more…He almost tripped over a gore-encrusted hand weight at the edge of the growing puddle, jumped over it and slid to his knees. Even as his mind registered that it was pointless, that there was nothing anybody could do for J.D., he was flipping open his cell phone and positioning himself for CPR.

"This is Special Agent Don Eppes, 3695, I need back up at Orly's Gym. Possible homicide. Send an amb - " He broke off, trying to breathe through the swelling that stoppered his breath somewhere south of his collarbone, kept his free hand centered tight over the motionless chest beside him, warmth already fleeing the skin under his palm. He clamped his lips resolutely together and tried again, fighting down a sickening wave of despair. "…a coroner's van," he corrected more quietly, then stopped.

He caught a flutter in the corner of his vision, something dancing in the updraft of the fans. A newspaper clipping, taped to the wall of mirrors. The header was still very black, so it must be a photocopy, not the original: _Baby Boy born to Margaret and Alan Eppes_…

His hand snatched at it, longing to rip it from the wall and shred it into tiny pieces, but conditioning ran deep and part of him remembered that this was a crime scene…you didn't tamper with a crime scene… the hand curled into a fist instead, knuckle-skin tight over bone, and he thought for a second that he had himself back under control.

He could hear a voice still droning from his phone, asking him something over and over, then a faint crunching sound, saw a spider web of cracks spread across the mirror, faintly ribboned with red.

Above it, the clipping twisted and twirled, revealing then concealing a glimpse of his mother's beaming, photographed face, a tiny bundle clasped proudly in her arms.

000

"Don."

He looked up, squinted at a Styrofoam cup floating in front of his eyes, steam wafting from it. He took it mechanically, sipped. It was too hot - burned all the way down, leaving a scalded trail. That gave him a sort of grim satisfaction and he took another swallow before putting it aside. He shifted his shoulders and felt something slither free, noticed then that someone had draped a blanket around him. _When had that happened? _

This time a towel dropped in front of his eyes. "For your hands."

He stared at it blankly, then turned his hands over to study his blood-slicked palms. _Oh, yeah. _"I tried to give him CPR."

"I know," Megan's voice was patient, kind. "You were doing that when we got here. It took two policemen to pull you off him."

_Oh. _He swallowed. It stung along his seared throat. "He's dead." He knew that - had known it from the first glimpse, but…but…_but what, Eppes? You were going to force him back to life by sheer will? Well, good luck with that._

"Yeah." He could feel the warmth as Megan settled herself on the floor next to him. "I'm sorry. How you holding up?"

He turned his head, looking for an answer, just caught sight of the coroner's team as they zippered the long black bag closed and turned away again quickly, letting his head drop back against the wall, eyes squeezed shut. "I think I…might have left a handprint on the door…before I knew…I mean, there haven't been any fingerprints so far, but…"

"Yeah, okay." Megan's voice sounded a little too kind and patient this time, and it rankled him. The Styrofoam cup nudged his cheek until he opened his eyes again. "Have a little more. It'll warm you up."

He was about to retort that he had just taken a very long, hot shower, when it struck him that his teeth were clattering against each other, faint tremors shaking his limbs. _Huh. _He let the blanket hang lax, but after a second he accepted the cup and drank again.

_Vile coffee. _

"Don, is this your usual night for the gym? I mean, are you here regularly at this day and time?"

What the heck was Megan babbling about now? He was trying to tell her where he might have contaminated the crime scene. She should be paying attention. "I don't know. What day is it?"

"Tuesday. Do you come here pretty routinely on Tuesday nights?"

_Routinely. _"Like we can ever do anything routinely."

"All right. I know." Megan's voice was more patient than ever, but there was an underlying note of urgency that made him curious. "But more often the not. Was it a habit?"

"Well, I'm usually here late - you know how it is. J.D. was joking about it…" he looked back to where they were now lifting the bag onto a gurney and strapping it down. "He wanted to be a Highway Patrol cop. I think he just liked the cycles and the uniforms…" the world blurred and he took another sip of the too-hot coffee, relishing the distracting burning in his throat. Megan's hand squeezed his forearm lightly and stayed there. He wanted to shake it off, to tell her that he wasn't pathetic and didn't need sympathy, but somehow he didn't have the energy. Besides, maybe he was pathetic.

"So you're here most Tuesdays. When you can."

_Man, why was she harping on this? When you had a job where your life depended on being able to run in a crouch hefting a submachine gun or jog up ten flights of stairs in full body armor, staying in shape was a priority. She knew that. What was the deal?_ "I got here whenever I could - couple times a week. I don't know about any day more than the other."

"When did you decide to come tonight? How long before you told me?"

"I don't know - maybe an hour…"

"And did you mention it to anyone else?"

"No, I - " _Oh. _He suddenly understood what they were talking about, and his delay in catching on told him how out of it he really was. Shaken, he took the Styrofoam cup in both hands and resolutely swallowed the entire contents in one pull. It tasted like crap, but he felt a little more coherent. "He's following me?"

"Keeping tabs on you somehow. He's gone from making you come to him, to seeking you out."

"Well, that's just swell." He crushed the Styrofoam cup into a ball and let it drop. "I should talk to J.D.'s mom."

"I'll talk to her."

Don shook his head. "You're a stranger - I knew him. It should be me."

"Don, I don't think you're in any shape to talk to anybody. I'll take you home, then I'll go see his mother."

"She didn't want to him to be a cop…" His vision fogged again and he bit his lip, hard. _Yeah, okay._ Maybe he wasn't the person to go. He let his head rock back against the wall again.

Megan's grip on his arm tightened. "Let's go. Do you want me to call your dad and Charlie and say you're coming?"

"What? No!" he sat up straight, suddenly bristling. "You can take me home - to my place!"

"Don, I don't think you should be alone - and I need to go talk to J.D.'s mother."

"You just told me you think this guy followed me here - now you want me to lead him to my father and brother? Thanks, I'll pass!"

"Don - " Megan kept hold of his arm, gesturing to where a crime scene technician was removing the newspaper clipping from the mirror and stowing it in an evidence bag. "If they can find that, do you really think they don't know about your Dad and Charlie already? And if somebody _does_ decide to head that way, wouldn't you rather be there with them?"

Don narrowed his eyes at her. _Oh, yeah, you're good all right. Just the right emotional weak spot. If I get through this thing with my sanity intact, I'll have to remember to mention it in your performance review. _

He tried to yank his arm away in some small show of independence, was faintly alarmed when Megan managed to maintain her hold. "Okay," he agreed bitterly. Because now, with that on the table, he was almost frantic to get to Charlie's - check things out. "Let's go, then."

But Megan was examining the arm in her grasp, pulled the hand close for a better look. She touched it delicately and he startled himself by jumping with a sharp, short cry of pain. His eyes turned reflexively to the mirror, a kaleidoscope of cracks fracturing the reflected light. He was surprised and mildly impressed with the size of the dent.

Megan was busily doing something with the towel and his hand, but her voice, directly in his ear, told him that she was looking at the same thing.

"What on earth did you do to yourself?" she breathed.

Her soft tongue click reminded him so powerfully of his mother that for a minute, he wasn't sure he'd be able to find his feet and stand.

_TBC_


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N: Another longish one, but it's hard to know where to break some of them. Patty, I did want you to know that I got your wonderful review - thank you so much - it came to my mailbox. Not sure why it doesn't show up on the site or in the review count, but I did report the problem. I'm glad you didn't guess J.D. was going to die - I tried not to tip my hand, but you guys are quick! And alessandriana, I was sorry to see poor J.D. die too. _

Chapter 10

"How's the hand?"

Don realized he was cradling his hand against his chest and abruptly lowered it to his knee. "Fine. It's fine."

"What did the doctor say?"

"That it might be a good idea not to punch any more mirrors."

Megan laughed and Don leaned forward in his seat, eyes trying to pierce the darkness. "You had them put a man on the house, right?"

"Yup. Holding the fort as we speak."

Don nodded, easing back into the seat again. "What about my car?"

"Once they're done processing it and they're sure it's not part of the crime scene, they'll either drop it off or leave it for you to pick up. Can you drive, did the doctor say?"

Don glanced at the hand now resting quietly in his lap. "Yeah - it's not like I drive a shift. And it's not the palm. It'll be a little awkward. I can take a cab in tomorrow if my car isn't released yet."

"Don…"

Don could hear what she was warming up to and cut her off. "No."

"Don't you think - "

"That I should get some sleep? That I should take a break from it? That I don't have anything to prove? I remember suggesting that to you under similar circumstances - do you remember what you said to me?" The protracted silence told him his words had hit home. "Right. Just keep it in mind now that the shoe's on the other foot."

Gravel crunched under the tires as they pulled into the driveway. Don reached for the door handle. "Thanks." He hesitated, glanced over at her. "I mean it."

Megan smiled slightly. "I'll walk you to the door."

"No." The sharpness in his tone surprised even him and he counted to five and tried again. "You can watch me walk to the door, from the car."

"Don - " This time Megan sounded nettled.

"No, listen to me. I really don't want to open that door tomorrow morning to find you lying on the walkway a bloody mess, beaten to death with a flashlight or a garden tool or whatever else seemed handy. In case you haven't noticed, _I'm_ fine - it's everybody around me that seems to be turning up dead and I really can't face another body on my conscience right now, so _you'll_ stay in the car, _I'll_ walk to the door and we'll call it a night."

Okay, that hadn't been exactly how he'd meant to put that.

He rested his good hand over his mouth, trying to collect himself, torn between explaining, apologizing, or just high-tailing it out of the car and into the sanctuary of the house.

"You don't know that," Megan said at last.

"No?" Don's tone was brittle. "There was nobody at that desk half the night - anybody could have walked in. I was in the bag room, alone - heck, I was almost alone in the gym, except for - " he broke off and grit his teeth, pressed the hand over his mouth again, then took a breath.

"If anybody wanted to take me out, they coulda done it. But they didn't. They took out some poor kid whose only crime was working at the gym I happen to belong to and then they cranked that damn music to make sure I found him. The message I'm getting is that they can do anything they want to anybody they want and that I can't do a damn thing to stop it. Well, whoever they are, they're wrong - I _can_ stop it and I will - but in the meantime, I need to be sure that the people around me aren't picked off one by one. I need to know they're safe." He peered anxiously through the glass again at the hulking shadow that was the house. "I still don't know that coming here isn't…you sure there's a man here?"

"If you could see him, he'd be fired," Megan pointed out dryly.

Don stared at the house again, then nodded. "Yeah."

Megan rested a hand between his shoulder blades for a second. "Get a little sleep. You have your medications?"

He nodded again, eyes scanning the landscaping. "Yeah."

"You sure you don't want to wake up somebody? Just for company?"

Don sighed impatiently. "Charlie's trying to get ready for the fall semester and Dad's working. Believe it or not, they've got lives and things to do besides coddle me."

"Oh, well, heaven forbid." Megan hit the button to release the locks. "All right, I'm going to sit right here and watch you walk to the door. I'll lock the car door behind you. You lock the house door behind you. Deal?"

"Deal." He opened the car door and found the ground with his feet, stood a little awkwardly, hampered by the use of only one hand. "See you tomorrow."

"Say, Eppes - do me one favor - "

He stopped, unconsciously maneuvering the door to act as a shield, eyes again roving the darkness. "What?" he asked cautiously.

"Don't assume you know what's going on."

He barked a short laugh. "I look like a man who knows what's going on?"

"I mean watch your back. Don't get so busy looking for danger for everybody else that you forget that." His mouth tightened and she continued quickly, "We had a cat once. A big Tom - a real mouser." His expression changed to curiosity and he propped one arm on the roof, trying to read her face in the yellow glare of the dome light. She held his eyes. "He loved it - killing mice. But never right away. He liked to play with them first - for him that was half the fun."

Don studied her expression, drawn and anxious, and gave her a small smile. "Thanks," he said ruefully. "I'll take that one to bed with me." He closed the car door and waited to hear the locks click, walked to the front porch and slid his key into the lock, letting her see him push the door inward before lifting his bandaged hand in a gesture of farewell. Then he slipped inside and closed the door behind him, shooting the locks home.

He saw her flash her headlights once, then heard the purr of the engine as the car pulled away. He leaned his forehead against the door, just for a minute.

_And who am I kidding. I'm not going to bed._

000

He moved from window to window, door to door, room to room; rattling knobs, checking locks, leaving at least one low light on in each room. The solarium nearly daunted him - so pleasant in the daytime, tonight it looked to him like nothing less than a death trap, and he traveled meticulously from window to window, making sure they were all shut tight and fastened, clucking his tongue impatiently at the clumsiness of his injured hand. He wished he dared to sneak into his father's and Charlie's rooms to check the windows, but he knew that would really be pushing his luck. When he felt he'd done all he could, he slipped soundlessly back downstairs and got comfortable on the couch, finding a vantage point that gave him a good view of the whole room, close to the door. Then he uholstered his gun and rested it on his thigh, letting his bad hand curl against his chest.

The good news, he mused, was that he'd been holding his cell phone in his right hand, so his left was the damaged one. The bad news…well, there was so much bad news, actually, that it was better not to dwell on it. The trick now was to stay awake - nerves and adrenaline could only take you so far. He lifted his feet onto an ottoman and resisted the urge to close his eyes, mentally laundry-listing every trick he'd ever learned for staying alert on stake-out. Coffee might help, but the aroma of coffee brewing was bound to rouse somebody. Besides, the coffee he'd had so far was already doing lousy things to his stomach.

The Craftsman clock that had been his mother's pride and joy seemed loud in the still room. It had a hypnotic, soothing sound, but somehow, tonight it just sawed at raw nerves. He tried to tune it out and focus on the small night sounds beneath the ticking instead. He didn't even notice things beginning to blur at the edges until the whisper of stealthy movements shot him back into alertness, feet swinging down to the floor and gun handgrip tight in his palm, almost before he was aware of it. He never made it to his feet, though, and the gun was still in stand down position on his thigh when reality caught up with him. He sank back into the cushions, not sure whether to laugh or cry. _Man._

"Hey," he said weakly. "Sorry. Did I wake you up?"

Charlie stood at the foot of the stairs in robe and slippers, grinding the sleep from his eyes. "I thought I heard somebody moving around and decided to have a look." Don opened his mouth and Charlie held up one hand to display a cell phone. "I would have called 911 if anything was up - just didn't want to phone in a squirrel or something." He tucked the phone back in his robe pocket. "What are you doing here? Need a place to crash?"

"Something like that." Don scrubbed his damp palm across his jeans to dry it. "I didn't mean to disturb anybody."

"No problem." Charlie dropped into the arm chair. He glanced at the clock. "It's so late."

"Yeah, well, I seem to recall somebody showing up at my place at 2 a.m. once."

Charlie smiled. "Yeah, I guess we just keep strange hours. Good news is, the door is always open for visitors."

Don half-smiled. "Yeah."

Charlie leaned forward in his chair. "What did you do to your hand?"

"Huh?" Don glanced at the mountain of gauze mummifying his left hand. "Oh. Something stupid." Charlie frowned and Don shrugged self-consciously, really looking at it for the first time, brushing ineffectually at a couple of reddish brown blotches on his white undershirt. "It's nothing - really. Couple of stitches - some bruising - maybe some little fractures. Inconvenient, more than anything. I figure emergency room doctors must own stock in gauze companies, the way they over wrap these things."

"I think it's supposed to cushion the injury - from being bumped and stuff."

"I guess so."

Charlie's eyes drifted to the uholstered gun on Don's thigh, and his frown returned. "Everything okay?"

Don opened his mouth again, then closed it. 'Okay' was too big a whopper even for him to tell. He looked down at his gun. "There was another murder tonight."

"Oh." Charlie searched his face.

"Yeah - " Don's gaze skittered from one familiar object to another, dodging Charlie's eyes. "Um - somebody I knew."

"I'm sorry."

The tone was heartfelt, and Don did look at him this time. "I mean, not well - to talk to. But…"

"Still." Charlie shifted. "Say," he suggested after an uncomfortable pause. "You want a beer or something?"

Don hesitated. _Let's see…antibiotics…ibuprophen…nothing that should be a problem with alcohol, right? _"Yeah. Sounds good." He leaned forward to rise, but Charlie shooed him back.

"I'll get it."

Don watched Charlie's robed back as it disappeared into the kitchen, groaned inwardly. Charlie was waiting on him? He really _must_ be pathetic.

Charlie returned carrying two beers, which raised Don's brows a fraction. Still, he was happy for the company.

Charlie handed one to Don and sat back down to open his own. "How many lights you got on here, anyway? That costs money, you know."

"So send me the bill." Don pursed his lips at his beer with a speculative glance at his injured hand. Charlie wordlessly took it back, wrestling the cap free before handing it to him again. Don gave him a rueful smile in thanks and took a long pull. _Uh huh. Definitely pathetic. _

The beer felt cool against his scalded throat and he gave a small sigh of satisfaction.

"So - _'maybe some fractures'_. What does that mean, exactly?"

Don took another sip and shrugged. "Guess it's hard to tell with a hand - got a whole mess of little bones."

"Twenty-seven."

Don tilted his beer bottle in acknowledged salute.

"But you're all right?"

Don nodded. "Sure. Probably didn't even need the emergency room, but Megan can be a real hard ass."

"You said stitches," Charlie pointed out.

"A couple." Charlie raised his brows. "Twenty-two," Don admitted reluctantly. "Just - surface stuff." _Sheesh. Always with the numbers. _"Look, buddy, I promise it's no big deal - probably won't even scar."

"Okay."

"So, how about you? Any luck with the stuff I gave you?"

Charlie shook his head. "Not really. Maybe if you give me some information on this new one…?"

Don flinched. "Yeah. CSU is still working on it." He was quiet a moment, rolling the beer bottle between his palms. "You know, back when I was a NAT - "

Charlie interrupted, wrinkling his forehead. "You were a gnat?"

Don grinned. "New Agent Trainee - FBI Academy." Charlie nodded, and Don continued, "There was this one guy in my class - Douglas Jericho. Huge guy - maybe six foot four, and broad - looked like a building with feet. Anyway, we had DT together - Defensive Tactics - " he corrected hastily when he saw Charlie open his mouth to ask. "We switched partners a lot, so you could get a lot of different experiences - how to take down somebody smaller, somebody bigger, how to take down a woman - don't look at me like that, it wasn't as much fun as it sounds."

Charlie wiggled his brows. "Not even with the right woman? Say, Terry?"

"Terry?" Don snorted. "Don't let it fool you - she was ruthless in DT. You never wanted to get teamed with her." But he smiled a little at the memory.

Charlie cleared his throat discreetly. "Jericho?"

"Yeah." Don took another swallow of beer. "Seemed like I got teamed with him a lot. Probably it wasn't more than anybody else, but it seemed like it. Anyway, the point of DT is that size shouldn't matter - you should know how to use balance and leverage and weaknesses to your advantage. So the fact that this guy had, like, seventy pounds on me shouldn't make a difference. Trouble is, he was getting the same instruction I was, so no matter how carefully I thought it through, or how many tricks I tried, or how hard I hit, somehow or other our sessions always ended up the same way - with me flat on my butt on the mat, sucking wind, while Jericho stood there like a wall, not even breathing hard." He shook his head, taking another sip. "Then he'd always say the same thing. _'That it, Eppes? That all you've got?'_" He drained the beer bottle. "That's how I feel on this case - just like I'm in DT class with old Jericho. I've run every angle I can think of, looked at it from every direction, thought it through a hundred times…and it doesn't even make a dent. That board just keeps looking back at me as if to say, _'That it, Eppes? That all you've got?'_"

Charlie put his beer down. "Anything I can do?"

Don looked at him thoughtfully. He was hearing Lt. Gary Walker's voice now, reminding him, _'You can't protect your brother, Eppes. All you can do is hit this guy with everything you've got.' _

Everything you've got. Wise words. Even if they did go against every instinct he had. He took a deep mental breath. "Yeah, maybe. You got any time tomorrow?"

"Sure. Tomorrow is mostly freshman orientation and that doesn't really involve me. I should be free by three or so."

Don smirked. "CalSci doesn't waste its genius prof on incoming frosh, huh?"

Charlie tried to look dignified. "My work is just better suited to upper classmen and grad students."

Don laughed. "Yeah. That's what I said."

"Oh, hey - speaking of upper classmen - I found out about the yearbooks. Turns out they keep extras for a couple of years in case somebody wants one after the fact, then they archive about ten and toss the rest. They tie them up and somebody comes and gets them for recycling."

"Huh." Don frowned. "You know the name of the company that picks them up?"

"No. But I can find out."

"I'd appreciate it."

"Not a problem." His tone was a little too eager, and Don eyed him narrowly. Charlie flushed. "Um - Dr. Winston - she's in charge of the yearbook committee - she was - um - very easy to - to work with, as it turns out."

"Yeah?" Don grinned and raised his brows. "_'Easy to work with' _as in _'easy to look at'_?"

Charlie cleared his throat. "She's - um - " he crumbled. "- a _really_ hot redhead," he confessed. "Smart, too."

"Yeah?" Don stretched until his back cracked. "Should Amita be looking over her shoulder?"

"No, no - " Charlie looked shocked, then dismayed. "No - Virginia - I mean, Dr. Winston - is just - just - "

"A friendly eyeful."

Charlie's flush deepened, but he grinned. "Yeah."

Don reached over to slap his arm. "Well, don't worry - your secret is safe with me."

"Thanks." Charlie stood, then noticed that Don hadn't. "You going to bed?"

"Hm?" Don glanced around the living room. "I think I'm going to stay down here."

Charlie looked down at the gun, still out of its holster, and frowned, but finally nodded. "Okay. See you in the morning."

"Or afternoon. If I'm gone when you get up."

"Three, then. For sure. Your office."

Don watched him make his way back up the stairs, torn. Maybe this wasn't the best thing to do. Then again…

"Hey, Don - "

Don looked up at Charlie, now leaning over the banister. "Yeah?"

"Whatever happened to Jericho anyway? Do you know?"

"Yeah. He went into the Behavioral Science Unit - doesn't even do field work. Didn't like all the violence."

Charlie gave a short laugh of disbelief, then lifted a hand. "Night."

"Night."

_That all you got, Eppes? _

Don watched Charlie's dark robe turn the landing corner and disappear from sight.

_Maybe not quite. Might be one good face card up my sleeve yet. _

_TBC_


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: Sorry, sorry…just a really impossible week._

Chapter 11

"Victim number four, J.D. Connelly." Don taped the photo to the board next to the others. "Over twenty-four hours after the third victim, and independently, not a federal crime - except that, at this point, we have to believe we have a serial killer on our hands. Still, this one shows significant variations from the established pattern." He glanced at Megan.

"He's escalating," she pitched in.

"We still open to it being a she?" David asked.

"We're not closing our eyes to any possibilities," Don responded. He taped the photocopy of his birth announcement next to J.D.'s crime scene photo. _Great. _It wasn't enough that Charlie was on the back of one of the photos, now his mother was front and center on another. The remnants of the bad coffee and the beer he'd shared with Charlie combined uneasily with ibuprophen in his stomach.

He had left Charlie's early after his nocturnal vigil, checked to see that a new agent was watching the house and called a cab. It served two purposes - it gave him some quiet time to think before the buzz of the morning started, and it bypassed that awkward moment when he would walk in on his team discussing him in hushed tones. At least this would put things back on professional terms and offer the appearance of normalcy.

He had clean clothes and some basic toiletries at the office and washed up as well as he could with one hand, splashing cold water on his eyes until they seemed more or less inclined to stay open. Then he checked his email and listened to his voicemail, making note of a message that his car had been cleared, and that he could pick it up at the motor pool any time. Finally, he went to the bullpen and took a seat, staring, trying to figure out what he was missing. When his team started to arrive two hours later, he was still trying.

"How secure is this gym?"

Don glanced at David. "Not very. Members have a key tag with an identifying bar code - you flash it at an electronic eye as you enter, and it identifies you to the desk and makes a record of your visit, but if nobody's at the desk, you can just walk right in. The security is more geared to stopping people from copping free workout time than anything else - members pay through monthly automatic withdrawal, so there's not much to steal except t-shirts and - Gatorade." He leaned back to stretch some of the stiffness out of his spine. "I've got the preliminary crime scene reports." He tapped a file in front of him and pulled out two printouts - a complete list of members and staff, and a list of members who had used their key tags the previous evening. Underneath were the incident report, preliminary forensic findings, preliminary Coroner's report, and a sleeve of photos - minus the ones he'd posted on the board.

Insisting on putting those up himself had been an act of sheer bravado - _business-as-usual-there's-nothing-special-going-on-here-folks_ - and the clinical part of his brain questioned whether or not that was really the wisest course…but somehow, he didn't seem to be able to help himself.

"All those mirrors…" David's voice was thoughtful, his eyes on the photos stringing across the board. "How did this guy get the drop on him? Even if he couldn't hear him over the music, he should have seen his reflection."

Don forced himself out of his chair and to his feet. _The better to stay awake anyway. _He drew an invisible circle around one section of the photo with his fingertip. "There's a CD Player built into the wall right here - a small equipment room right behind it. I figure he was adjusting the music and didn't hear anybody come in, or somebody was waiting in that equipment room. Even if he caught a glimpse of somebody in workout gear, he'd just assume it was a client with a question. And there's nothing suspicious or threatening about someone at a gym carrying a hand weight. They keep tubs of them, different weights, along this wall by the door - here - " He pulled a photo out of the file and tossed it on the tabletop. " - along with other stuff - you know, stasis balls, mats, stretch bands, weight bars - that kind of thing."

"How heavy was the weight?"

The coffee-beer-ibuprophen mixture sloshed in Don's stomach. "Twelve pounds."

Colby was frowning at the initial Coroner's report. "This kid was tall - 6'2". Take decent strength to heft that weight as high as his head fast and still make that kind of an impact. We're probably looking at a man."

Megan pursed her lips. "Or a woman who works out."

"I don't know." Don took the report from Colby, skimming it. "Given the angle of the blow, if it's a woman, it's a pretty tall one. Megan, you're tall - get behind Colby like you're trying to brain him. Let's see what that looks like."

Megan stood up, straightening her top. "This job does have its perks."

Colby turned his back to her, crossing his arms over his chest. "Don't get any ideas."

"I have a nice paperweight you could borrow," David suggested brightly.

"Yeah, yeah - it's all very funny til somebody loses an eye," Don interrupted. "A roll of paper will do fine. Come on, guys, focus - " He tried to look stern. He knew the humor was a little forced and mostly for his benefit and he was touched, but he was also too close to emotional overload already - who knew what kind of reaction any extraordinary kindnesses might provoke? He watched as Megan efficiently rolled a few sheets of paper into a tube and crept behind Colby.

Colby shifted. "What are you doing back there? A guy can't wait around all day to be murdered…"

Megan lowered the roll of paper and tapped him lightly on the scalp.

Don frowned from the Coroner's report to Colby and back. "Looks like about the right angle…sorry, Megan, I'm with Colby - it's not impossible it's a really tall woman, but statistically, it's more likely to be a man at that height."

"A tall woman in heels?" David suggested.

"On a gym floor? Probably not - too conspicuous. I'm pretty comfortable saying we should narrow our search to males. If you don't want to take my word for it, you can ask Charlie to run you some numbers on the probability when he stops by this afternoon."

"You're bringing Charlie in?"

Don kept his eyes on the Coroner's report. "Charlie was already in."

"I mean, all the way."

He studiously replaced the Corner's report in the file. "Yeah."

Megan looked like she wanted to say something, but Colby's phone trilled and they all turned to look at it.

Colby snatched it up. "Granger." He paused to listen. "Yeah. Yeah? You're kidding - " They realized simultaneously that they were staring at him and tried to get their eyes busy elsewhere, but Colby held up a hand. "Yeah. Hang on - " He wrapped a palm over the mouthpiece. "It's LAPD. They brought a guy in on suspicion of conspiracy to commit murder - contract killing - and he's hoping to cop a plea. Says he's been brokering jobs out, and one was for a retired ATF agent - Alderman. He's willing to give out names in return for the right deal - they want to know if one of us wants to sit in on the interrogation."

Don exhaled sharply. "Damn straight we do - go - take David with you. Call as soon as you have anything more specific."

Colby was already grabbing his jacket, David right on his heels.

000

"Okay. Keep on it. Thanks." Don replaced his phone and leaned back in his chair, rocking it gently to and fro. "The guy at Charlie's place says everything is quiet. Merrick approved another man to keep an eye on Charlie at CalSci, too." With a possible break in the case and his family under watchful guard, he felt like he could take his first deep breath in two days.

"That's great." Megan was paging through something on her computer screen, but she paused to look at him. "What about you?"

Don stopped rocking. "What about me?"

"Don't you think it would be smart to have a man on you?"

Don shrugged. "Not necessary." Megan frowned and he continued, "Hey, it's not just me - Merrick agrees. There's been no clear threat to me, and it's not like I'm not in a position to take care of myself. Protect the innocents first."

Megan jerked her chin in the direction of the board. "You don't think that constitutes a threat, huh? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks really scary."

"I'm not saying it doesn't scare me - it scares the hell out of me - and yeah, I do think somebody's messing with me - but they seem more interested in turning me into a head case than anything else. Doing a good job at it, too, by the way. I've agreed to protection at the first sign I'm in some kind of physical danger."

"Well, that's comforting," Megan turned back to her computer screen. "Especially considering that, as far as we know, the first indication Meyers, Alderman, Motta and Connelly had that _they_ were in danger? Was also the last."

But Don was feeling a glimmer of optimism and he wasn't ready to have it quashed. "Look, if we put protection on every FBI Agent that's ever been threatened, half of us would be spending all our time protecting the other half. It's not practical."

Megan lifted her brows. "All right. But be careful, okay? I'd kinda miss you."

"Well, you're in luck, cause I'm not going anywhere." He stared at the board again. "My birth announcement. Still in chronological order. If the order's not a coincidence then it's interesting, because that's the first time I ever appeared in public print. Couldn't be anything earlier. Don't suppose it means he's done with me?"

Megan leaned forward on her arms and followed his gaze to the board, tracking from one bloody photo to the next. She looked back at him, unsmiling. "What do you think?"

Don rubbed a thumb along his lip. "I don't think there's a snowball's chance in hell."

000

"Hey."

Don jumped at the light touch on his shoulder, embarrassed to realize he'd been more than half asleep. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Hey…" he mumbled. "What time…?" he glanced at his watch. Almost ten thirty. _Ouch. _He'd been out for a good ten minutes.

"Maybe you should stretch out for a little bit." He could hear the smile in Megan's voice.

"I'm kind of afraid I'd never get up again." He leaned back, massaging his neck. "Hear anything from David and Colby?"

"Not yet. But eBay has a name for me - not the buyer's ID yet, but the seller. She's local, so I was going to go talk to her. I thought you might want to come along, but…"

"But you're afraid a snoring partner will cramp your interview style?" He smiled slightly.

"I think the sitting still could be deadly for you," Megan grinned. "More importantly, I think this woman might open up more easily if I talk to her alone. Why don't you stay here and catch a couple of winks? I'll phone in as soon as I have anything - shouldn't take long."

Don blinked grit from his eyes. "What if she's an old classmate of mine? Could help to have me there."

"Or could throw her off. I think it's better if I mention your name and see what kind of reaction I get."

"You make it sound like you think I wasn't popular," Don grumbled, glancing down at the gym member/employee list he'd been running for matches. "All right. Take your time. I've got plenty to keep me busy. What was the name anyway? I might recognize it."

"Gillian Tauberman."

Don shook his head. "Doesn't ring any bells."

"A couple of those books were from after your time - could be you didn't know her. Or could be somebody selling the books as part of an estate."

Don made a face, loosening his tie. "An estate from somebody my age? That's a depressing thought."

Megan patted his shoulder. "Or maybe," she suggested, lowering her voice sweetly, "She's some mousy girl Mr. Big-Time Jock didn't take any notice of." She picked up her purse and beat a hasty exit toward the elevator.

"Hey, that's not funny!" Don called after her. "I was definitely an equal opportunity dater - always!" His only answer was silence and he sank back in his chair and let his eyes close again. "Hmph. Mousy's not bad," he muttered to himself. "Some of those mousy girls were cute - once you got to know them."

He jerked suddenly, irritated to realize he'd been back on the brink of sleep. "All right - Megan's right - sitting still is not a good idea." He used the arms of the chair to bolster himself to his feet.

He was supposed to be taking his antibiotic now anyway, right? A stroll to the kitchen for a little water should wake him up. He fished in the pockets of the suit coat slung over the back of his chair until he found two small vials and pulled them both out. Maybe another one of those painkillers wouldn't hurt either. Last night they hadn't done a damn thing for him and the throbbing in his hand had grown until there wasn't the smallest danger of him falling asleep - but now they seemed to at least be taking the edge off. If he wanted to be able to concentrate, he'd better take another.

He filled a Styrofoam cup from the kitchen tap and read the tiny typed directions on the labels. Ugh. He was supposed to take the antibiotics with food…he sure hadn't taken the first ones with anything, unless you counted coffee and beer, but that could be why his stomach was acting up now. Was there anything to eat around here? Besides sugar packets?

A search of the kitchen turned up somebody's aging sandwich with a curiously green filling, a rock-like bagel, and a carton of yogurt two weeks past its expiration date. Don shook his head. Okay, skip the antibiotic for now and just take the ibuprophen. He tossed two pills down with water and started back to his desk, kneading his wrist in an effort to ease the growing discomfort in his hand. He was supposed to be keeping that elevated or something. Maybe a couple of minutes of that would help.

His cell phone shrilled and he grabbed it from its clip on his jeans pocket, its usual place on the left-hand side of his belt too awkward a reach for now. Colby's number displayed and he flipped it open. "Yeah, Colby?"

"Say, Don - good news - this guy not only remembers brokering a contract on Alderman, but one on Motta too."

"You're kidding." Don approached the bullpen. "What about Meyers?"

"Nothing yet, but he's still singing. He's probably not going to give us much more until the USDA gets here and solidifies a deal, but I really think we're onto something."

"Not likely there was a contract on Connelly."

"No, but there might be one connected with the gym. Or…" Colby's voice trailed off uncomfortably.

"Or me," Don finished for him. "Okay. Megan's tracking down a lead on the yearbooks, too. Let me know as soon as you have more."

"Right. Might take us a couple of hours."

"Take as long as you need - this is our first real break! I'll see you when you get here - just keep in touch." He closed his cell phone and clipped it back to his pocket, adrenaline coursing through his system now, jazzing him awake. **_Now_** _we're getting somewhere. _

He entered the bullpen and stared at the board, thinking about his conversation with Charlie last night. _You were big, Jericho, and I never managed to take you down - but I've learned a few tricks since then. Might be it's my turn to knock some hardcase on their butt. Metaphorically, anyway. _

His brows rose. _Jericho. _Now there's something he hadn't thought to do - compare his Academy class with his High School and college classes. Chances were he'd have noticed any overlap back then, but he could look at teachers, Academy employees…he picked up his jacket, maneuvering his bandaged hand through one sleeve, then his good one more easily through the other, shrugging it into place along his shoulders. He had until three before Charlie would arrive, five before he needed to visit the morgue for a more complete autopsy review. _Plenty of time. _

He'd swing by his place and pull his stuff from Academy days, grab a bite to eat along the way. Or maybe there was something edible in his refrigerator. He snorted. _Yeah. That's likely._

As he started toward the motor pool to collect his car, he realized that he was actually smiling and turned for one last glimpse of the board. His mother's face smiled back at him from the blurry ink of the birth announcement. His smile stretched to a grin.

_See, Mom? You worry for nothing. Everything's finally starting to work out._

_TBC_


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N: Well, this one's been giving me fits. I've made the chapters for this story a little longer than the ones for Collateral Damage - partly because I was supposed to have it done before the new season started, partly because I planned on it being significantly shorter than CD. Well, it clearly wasn't done on time and it's not as short as I'd expected either (that will go on my gravestone someday - "I thought this story would be shorter"). _

_This chapter got very long, so I finally split it into two, to make it less unwieldy. To make up for the brevity of this one, I'll post the next in another day or so. Thanks for your patience._

Chapter 12

"You're home early."

Charlie tossed his backpack on the couch and shut the door. "Yeah - things went really smoothly. Pretty much unheard of in the history of - hey! I haven't seen those in years!" He moved through the living room to the dining room, to where Alan was seated at the table, a stack of albums at his elbow and one open in front of him. Charlie leaned over his shoulder. "Look at us! Man, those haircuts were brutal! What, were you guys afraid we'd have something left you'd have to actually comb?"

Alan gave him half a smile. "That was the fault of Sully, the local barber's assistant. He was an ex-Marine. It was the last time he cut your hair, believe me."

"That's lucky." Charlie flopped into a chair next to him. "Especially considering all the hair _you_ got to keep." He pulled the album closer. "I can't believe how young you look."

"Yes, that was before I turned into Methuselah," Alan agreed dryly. "Something, by the way, that seemed to correspond with my raising children."

"Must have been Don," Charlie observed piously. "I was - um - a little angel."

"Ah ha." Alan pulled the album back and turned the page. "You have a very creative - and - ahem - inaccurate - memory. No doubt a function of the genius brain."

Charlie grinned and reached for one of the books. "What made you dig these out?"

"Oh…" Alan fidgeted, looking a little self-conscious. "Don was here the other day looking at them and I gave him the one of his baseball photos to take with him…thought I'd look and see if there were any others that he should have."

Charlie propped up the book he had opened. "You don't have to go through all of them for that," he pointed out. "Mom labeled them in the front cover."

"Yes, well, I know that - " Alan smoothed the corner of one picture, his tone just a touch defensive. "But some of them have photos of both of you…I thought you should both have copies. Those are easy to make these days, right?" His smile crept out. "Look here - remember this? Halloween, 1983."

Charlie leaned in to look. "Oh, yeah. I remember how frustrated I was that I had to keep explaining that I was supposed to be Albert Einstein, not a mad scientist. Even with "E equals mc squared" written on my pocket."

"It was probably a little too subtle for the average neighborhood home."

"I thought it would be neat if Don went as Max Born, so that we would match, but he went as Zorro."

"Yes, well, it's hard for even a Nobel prize-winning physicist to compete with a sword and a cape."

Charlie's brows meshed. "Really?"

Alan's chuckled. "To a twelve-year-old boy."

Charlie's still looked unconvinced. "Okay."

"To _Don_ as a twelve year old, then."

"I guess." Charlie turned a page, then burst out, "You know, Born was - I mean, his advances in the statistical interpretation of quantum mechanics _alone_ - "

"I have no doubt," Alan assured absently, smiling at a new photo. "Maybe if he'd carved a "B" in his papers with a sword Don would have been more impressed."

"What made him pull these out anyway? I mean Don, not Max Born."

"Oh - he said he was thinking of selling his baseball cards on eBay - made him think of the albums."

Charlie stiffened. "His baseball cards? He - said that?"

"That's what he said."

"Oh." Charlie squirmed a little. "Um - but he loved those cards."

"That was years ago, Charlie. People move on." His smile grew sad as he gazed at the page of photographs. "Well, it doesn't seem to be my strength, actually, or yours for that matter, but people do. Your mother and Don were always a little better at letting go." He looked up from the album and smiled. "Then again, in the end he decided to keep them - said they held a lot of good memories - so maybe he's not really any better at it than we are, hm?"

"He did." Charlie forced a wan smile. He looked down at the album in his hands and abruptly closed it. "You know, I was supposed to meet Don at - three, but since I'm free early, maybe I'll just run over there now - see what he needs."

"You working on Don's case?"

"Well, I've been doing _some_ work on it…but he asked me if I could stop by and go over everything. He seemed pretty discouraged about it when he stopped by."

"He stopped by?" Alan sat back in surprise. "When was this?"

"Oh, um - late - late last night. Very late."

"And nobody thought to wake me up? I wouldn't have minded saying 'hi'."

"Dad, it was the middle of the night - he didn't wake me up either. I heard somebody moving around down here and got up to check. We only talked for a few minutes, then he was gone before I got up this morning. I think he just crashed here so he wouldn't have to drive too far with his hand."

"His _hand_." Alan looked flabbergasted. "What about his hand? What's wrong with his hand?"

_Whoops. _Charlie hesitated. "Um…he…um…injured it. Just - just a little. At a crime scene, I think."

Alan stared. "And no one thought this was worth waking me up for?"

"No - Dad, it was nothing. He seemed fine. Maybe a little tired, but it was late. Really, I don't have any of the details." That last part, at least, was perfectly true, and Charlie was relieved to find himself back on solid ground again.

"Hmph." Alan gave him a hard stare, then returned to his album. "All right. Tell him to come back with you for dinner instead of this sneaking in and out."

Charlie rose hastily. "Well, I'll tell him. But just remember - I'm only the messenger."

000

Don felt the lock finally give and pushed the door inward. Funny how you depended more on your non-dominant hand than you realized - a simple thing like opening a locked door turned into a wrestling match. He tossed the keys on a small table by the door, added a stack of mail. He should probably make a little stronger effort to get his mail to all come to the same place, instead of having some of it still trickle into Charlie's after…how long had it been now? He locked the door behind him. The air inside felt stale and unused - he needed to air this place out, too. He needed to do a lot of things.

He strolled down the small hallway and paused at the kitchen to check out the refrigerator. He wrinkled his nose. It smelled even mustier than the apartment. Just as soon as this case was put to bed, he's have to pay some attention to the domestic aspects of his life. Or at least, restock the beer. He let the refrigerator door swing closed and wandered deeper into the apartment, to the bedroom. He'd left his bed unmade since…how many mornings ago now? _Okay, Mom, I know - don't start_.

He struggled out of his jacket and tossed it across the end of the bed, then dug into the closet for the box of school memorabilia and dragged it into the light, dropping it on the bed and sitting down next to it to paw through the remaining contents. He had inherited his mother's penchant for tidy files, so it didn't take him long to find what he was looking for. He'd take these back to the office and put them with his other school stuff. Pretty soon his whole life would be at the office. The idea was mildly depressing.

He yawned as he opened an envelope of photos and flipped through them. Sitting on the bed had probably been a bad idea. Sitting, period, seemed to be a bad idea. He tossed the photos back in the box and carried the whole carton into the hallway, swearing half-heartedly as he struggled for a position that didn't put pressure on his bad hand, his voice loud in the small apartment. It was so quiet here during the day…most of the other tenants were professional people like himself, gone until evening. He set the box by the door and leaned into the doorjamb for a second and closed his eyes. _Wow. Where was all that handy adrenaline when you needed it? _

He told himself to get moving, rolled onto his back so that both shoulder blades were pressed into the wall instead, but couldn't seem to get himself to budge any further. _Okay, okay_…he lifted his wrist high enough to squint at his watch. Maybe a power nap was in order - just a quick one. He had a couple of hours he could spare. With a sigh, he unfastened his belt and bundled it onto the table next to the mail, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt as he headed down the hall. Couldn't risk sleeping in one of his only remaining clean shirts…his jeans, on the other hand, would have to stay - _way_ too much work to try to get in and out of those with only one hand. This is where it would be nice to have somebody soft and sweet smelling around, he mused as he shouldered his way back into his bedroom. Somebody waiting at home to help you out of your jeans…he phoned his position in to the office and tossed his cell phone on the nightstand, then set the clock alarm carefully, pushing the mess of the covers aside and easing onto his back with a sigh. _Man. That felt good._

He closed his eyes, burrowing into the blankets, his breathing already deep and slow. Oh, who was he kidding… he never seemed to go for the kind who were waiting at home for you anyway…looked like he'd be struggling with his own jeans for…

He was asleep before he could even finish the thought.

_TBC_


	14. Chapter 14

_A/N: And here's the second half…I thought of it as 13b, but ffnet clearly does not agree, so let's call it 14 instead._

Chapter 14

Charlie flashed his ID badge at the security desk, barely acknowledging the nod as he was waved through, his thoughts in a tangle. He had been thinking about what he was going to say to Don all the way over - how he was going to explain - but now that he was actually in the building, all his explanations sounded hollow to his own ears. He ducked his head as he pushed the button to call the elevator. Oh, this was ridiculous - Don would be irritated, but that would be the end of it. It was a little - embarrassing - but hardly deadly.

The elevator dinged and the doors slid apart and Charlie stepped in, pressing the number of the correct floor. On the other hand, if he could come up with something really brilliant to help solve this case, that could go a long way to forgiving everything else. The elevator stopped and he took a determined breath and stepped onto the floor. After all, it wasn't like he was still eight - he was a grown man. He didn't need his big brother's approval anymore, and his displeasure shouldn't be anything more than a minor discomfort. He squared his shoulders and started down the corridor.

He caught the sound of familiar voices even before he turned the corner to the bullpen, his self assurance wilting a little. He stiffened his spine determinedly. The best thing to do would be to get it over with. It would all come spilling out eventually anyway.

"Hi, Megan," he began with resolute cheer, fixing his eyes on the first person he caught sight of.

"Hi, Charlie." Megan glanced at the clock. "You're early. We weren't expecting you until three."

"Yeah, well, I got done early, so I thought I'd just - come on over. Don here?" He glanced around a little nervously. He could see David and Colby, both in the middle of either leaving or arriving since they were busy with their jackets, but no sign of his brother.

"Not right now. He planned to be here to meet you at three, but - he's at his place. He was going to crash for a couple of hours until then. I could call him…" Megan trailed off.

Charlie raised his brows. "Don taking a nap on a case? That's different."

"Wasn't much else for him to do." Colby was evidently returning, because he was folding his coat over the back of his chair now. "And the FBI's a little like the Army - eat, sleep and go to the bathroom whenever you can, because you never know when you'll get another chance."

"We had a couple of things break - I think he wanted to be fresh for that," Megan explained. "If you don't mind waiting, I think he could really use the sleep."

_Reprieve. _"No, that's fine." Charlie was exasperated at how relieved he felt. "Why don't you guys catch me up in the meantime? What have you got so far?" He turned to look at the case board.

His heart stopped dead in his chest.

When it finally started up again an interminable amount of time later, it was beating in his ears, fast and loud. He swallowed carefully and tried to find his voice. It came out sounding like somebody else's, thin and insubstantial. "What is this…?" He cleared his throat and tried again. "…some kind of prank?"

He knew that gallows humor was popular with his brother's team. Amita had explained to him once that it was a way of coping with all the horror. He hadn't really needed the explanation - he understood it - intellectually. It was emotionally that he struggled with it: _Wow! Eighty rounds of ammo, fired out of nowhere, ha ha ha! Hey, two feet closer and that bomb would have taken us all out, ho ho ho! _No matter how hard he tried, none of that made him laugh. He had even snapped at Don once when he had tried to make light of things and Don had broken off immediately, looking surprised and a little hurt. It was the hurt look that had gotten to him - Don never looked hurt - darn it, that was _his_ look - how dare Don use it on him?

It had gotten under his skin so much that he had promised himself to try and play along next time - no matter how disturbing he really found it. He just hadn't expected anything quite so disturbing as…this.

He was gritting his teeth so hard in an effort to remain nonchalant that it took him a full minute to realize that nobody was actually laughing. Or even smiling. Well, maybe they realized that the joke was in really terrible taste. He looked from Megan to David to Colby. Something about their faces made the heartbeat in his ears go a little faster.

Megan was trying out a smile. The result was wholly unconvincing. "Charlie…how much has Don had a chance to tell you about this case?"

Charlie stared at her, wondering what it was about her face that was making his stomach do flip flops. "Not - not a lot. I looked into some yearbooks for him, and, um, I - he wanted to know how hard it would be for someone to…to…" He turned back to the board. _Oh. Oh, God. _His eyes traveled down the line of photos, riveted. He felt Megan's light, firm touch on his shoulder.

"It's not a prank, Charlie," she said quietly. "This is the case we've been working on."

For a second, Charlie was sure Megan's touch was all that was holding him up. He tried to force his empty lungs back into motion. "But - that's - Don." For a man with a staggering intellect, he felt as though his mind was moving incredibly slow.

"They've been showing up at crime scenes - " David supplied in his steady, reassuring tone. "Photos from his past - "

"I know what they are!" Charlie was a little taken aback at how high and shrill his own voice came out. "It's not like I don't - recognize…"

_Baseball card. High School yearbook. College yearbook…**yearbooks**! God damn him, God damn him, God damn him…_he caught sight of his mother's image and it was all he could do to keep himself from tearing it down and stamping on it. _Why didn't he…? Why wouldn't he…? Okay, this is why - because you're coming unglued. Because everybody is standing around here looking like they're getting ready to catch you, in case you faint. Which you're not going to do. You're going to pull it together and show them that you can function calmly…professionally._

Charlie swallowed hard, slowing the pounding in his ears. "Do you…do you know why…?"

"We think we got something, finally - " Colby, this time. "I mean, we haven't got the connection to Don yet, but we think we've tied a couple of the other murders together. We're closing in."

_Other murders. _Charlie nodded, his mind wincing frantically away from that phrase. Okay, good. Maybe he could be a help there. "And you say Don's at his place…?"

Megan nodded. "Yeah - getting a little sleep. He could really use it. He was going to tell you about it, Charlie, today - "

Charlie nodded again. "Yeah. Okay. I get that. You've got a man on him, right?"

His eyes were glued to the board, no matter how hard he tried to pull them away, remembering the first time he'd seen Don's baseball card, his yearbook photos…trying not to notice the rusty pin dots decorating them that could only be…he had to swallow down a sudden wave of nausea, so it took him another minute to realize that no one had answered. He dragged his eyes away from the photos and looked from one to the other. "You've got a man on him." It wasn't a question this time.

They exchanged glances and Megan, seemingly elected the bearer of bad news, cleared her throat.

Charlie felt his hands curl into fists. "Oh, don't tell me."

"Charlie - "

"He puts a man on me if - I mean, if I _sneeze - _you're telling me - "

"It wasn't all his decision, Charlie. Merrick agreed. There's been no clear threat to Don himself - "

Charlie gave a short, hard laugh. "No?" he flung an arm at the board. "You don't think so?"

Megan took a deep breath. "We have protocols to follow, Charlie."

Charlie covered his mouth with one hand, pushing back an inadvisable retort, his eyes devouring the odd juxtaposition of the bloody images with the pictures from his brother's youth. "Yeah," he said at last, sarcasm edging the word. "Okay. Okay, you know what? You don't want to put a man on my brother, that's fine. That's great. Then _I'll_ put a man on him. Me."

"Charlie - " Megan reached for him, but he dodged her. "Charlie!" She called after him as he ducked out of the bullpen. "Don't you think it would make more sense to stay here and try to help us figure out what's going on? You could help us solve this, Charlie - maybe even get a lead on something before Don gets back - if you could listen to what Colby and David found out - "

Charlie turned to look at her, breathing hard. "Oh, I'll be back. I guarantee that. And I'll comb through every scrap of information you've got. But right now, I want to see my brother. I want to know that _somebody's_ looking out for him."

"Charlie - " David looked torn. "It's not like Don doesn't know how to take care of himself - "

"Yeah, c'mon, Charlie," Colby put in. "With all due respect - what exactly do you think you're gonna do if there's trouble? Scare the bad guy with a really - tough - algorithm?"

Charlie pressed his lips together in a tight smile. "I'll tell you what I'm going to do," he forced out at last. "I'm going to find my brother and stick to him like a shadow until this is solved and we have somebody in custody. Because I know him, and as long as I'm standing next to him, he's going to be really, really careful - because he'll be afraid of me getting caught in the crossfire. That's what I'm going to do." He turned on his heel.

There was a surprised pause. "That's not bad," Megan admitted.

The laugh Charlie returned was humorless. "Glad you approve!" He pounded the button for the elevator.

"Charlie - " It took him a second to realize that Megan had followed. He turned to face her defiantly, but she was smiling at him. "Charlie, if you're going to play FBI guy, then do it right - don't forget to call in regularly, okay?"

Gradually, Charlie felt himself smile back. "I can do that," he agreed, a little relieved at the thought of having somebody to back him up.

"Good." She gave his shoulder a final pat. "Don't be in such a hurry that you forget to drive safe. And stick with your plan - it's a good one."

Charlie nodded briefly, his shoulders relaxing some. "I intend to."

He'd murder Don with his bare hands later. Right now, he'd crawl into bed with him while he napped, if he had to. The elevator opened and he stepped inside.

It was just a bonus that that should really piss him off.

000

_What…? _Don sat up before he was really awake, his heart thundering against his breastbone. He blinked, his eyes squinting to block the seemingly blinding light pouring in from the hall.

Had he left that on? _Maybe. Can't remember. What's the matter, Eppes, you need a nightlight now?_ _In the middle of the day? _He glanced at the clock. He'd only been asleep for twenty minutes or so. _Damn. _

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, letting his head loll in his sound hand. He had time for another hour of sleep anyway, counting clean up and travel time, and he'd like to at least try for it. If it was nightmares waking him up, then he'd give it up and clean up and go back to work. But if it was just some kind of a weird power surge…he fought back a yawn, padding in his bare feet to the bedroom door. _The wiring in this building is pretty old…could be something like that. _

The hall light switch was halfway between the front door and the bedroom, and he leaned into the wall as he walked the few steps to it, fumbled for it, eyes still only half open. _Even a half hour more sleep would help._

He felt the plastic switch plate under his hand, the nub of the switch poised under his fingers, his position made awkward by the need to turn to use his right hand, the left one dangling at his side. He stopped.

He wasn't quite sure why: what felt wrong, out of place; what started that preternatural itch that shivered from the back of his neck down his spine. Hand still on the switch plate, he turned his head to look.

There was a stirring in the air, a glimpse of something just out of sight, a blur of motion. His hand came up in the instinctive start of a defensive move, part of his brain automatically trying to locate his gun.

There was a horrible sound: a sharp, wet, thump, and a blinding explosion of noise and white light swallowed his vision. His hand slapped at the wall to catch his balance, missed purchase and stuttered downward.

Then the floor flew up and slammed him in the face.

_TBC_

_A/N: Yeah, you knew it was coming. You've been very patient._


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

_Cigarette smoke. _Funny…because he'd thought he was dreaming, and he was pretty sure he had read somewhere that you couldn't smell in dreams. But if he was awake then that didn't make any sense either…he didn't know many people who smoked or many places you even _could_ smoke in California these days. He struggled to find his way back through the dark and random tunnel that housed his brain, trying to track time…where he was, what exactly had come before. Information trickled through, thin and sketchy, brief flashes of sound and sight. He felt a surface, smooth and cool, pushing against his forehead and tried to name it, but came up blank. He tried to pry his lids apart and look, but only one even flickered and just for a minute, the landscape within the scope of his vision reeling like the view from the Mad Tea Cup Ride at Disneyland. He let his eye close again.

_Floor. _Recognition seeped in slowly. _Hardwood. Rug_…his bedroom? He…fell? _Crazy. _One way or another, he'd be more comfortable back in bed…

The smell of cigarette smoke nudged at him though, along with that pervasive itch at the back of his skull, warning him that he was not alone. Chewing his lower lip, he braced his forehead against the floor to help push himself up, fumbled for his hands. It took him an odd, disjointed second to even locate them, numb and trapped behind his back, tried to make a fist, to wake them up and get the circulation flowing again. The right one flopped uselessly, swollen and bloodless, the left one throbbed with a roar of fire, seemingly twice its normal size. He tugged at them and something hard and cold bit deep into both wrists, surprising a hiss of pain. A soft laugh startled him and he froze.

"Glad to see you're up. I was afraid I hit you too hard - ended all the fun kinda prematurely. Be a real shame after all my hard work."

Don's heart gave a sick lurch, even as his brain struggled to finger the voice. Maybe this really was a dream…no, the cigarette smoke. Was he really in his room…? He tried to make his lids work again, got just the one pried back, just for a minute.

Yeah, this was his place all right - he'd know those dust bunnies anywhere. What he didn't recognize were the steel-toed boots resting on the rug in front of the bed. Not his - much too big - not to mention that they seemed to be filled with a pair of large feet leading to blue-jeaned legs…and he was pretty sure his legs were still over here on the floor with the rest of him. _Pretty_ sure…he tried to move them, felt his knees shift against the floor. Yup, they were here - and working better than his hands. He tugged experimentally at his hands again, didn't quite manage to choke back a cry as something unyielding dug channels in the flesh of his wrists.

_Cuffs. _His, probably. Way too tight. Evidently somebody hadn't learned the "tip of one index finger when cuffing" rule.

Reason was filtering back, and a glimpse of memory, bringing with them the sobering realization that he was in trouble. Really big trouble. He inhaled, hoping to slow down the rapid-fire hammer of his heart. He'd feel a lot less vulnerable if he could at least sit up.

He tried to get his knees under him, using his forehead to steady himself, but when he moved his head this time, his brain careened inside his skull, icepicks impaling his eardrums and flashes of light battering his eyelids. He gave a faint, surprised groan before he could stop himself and collapsed back on the floor, sick and dizzy.

The laugh this time was louder.

"Never could tell when you were licked, could you, Eppes? I could watch this all day."

Don ground his teeth together, fighting to get a handle on both the pain and his temper. When the starbursts behind his eyes faded some, he took another try at moving his lids. The left one flickered again, the right stayed stubbornly closed, and this time he could sense it, hard and solid as a golf ball, puffed shut with swelling. He blinked the left one, narrowing it to clear his vision. Swinging gently to and fro in front of the steel-toed boots, he could make out a baseball bat, tip mottled with dark red. He closed his eye again.

His blood, no doubt. Certainly his bat. Damn it, he loved that bat, and now it was going to be stuck in some damn evidence locker for…for…_way ahead of yourself, Eppes. Because unless you figure something out here, you're not going to be needing that bat anyway. _

That thought cleared his aching head like a dash of cold water, the case details rushing front and center. _Four people killed. Three in their own homes, with their own possessions. Unless you want to become victim number five, Eppes, you'd better hurry up and pull yourself together. _He tried again to force himself up, pressing his lips together as the building agony in his head made him want to vomit. One knee slid out from under him and he flopped back to the floor again with a thud, the room graying and flipping on its head.

"I could watch this all day…but sadly, I haven't got all day."

A dark shadow loomed over him. Massive hands tightened in the shoulders of his undershirt, hefted him into sitting position and threw him back against the wall. He heard the thin fabric of his shirt tear, felt the world slip as he head rapped against the wall, his hands crushed behind him. He scrabbled for fragments of consciousness, wishing he could figure out what time it was. He was due in the office at three - when he didn't show up, they'd call, anyway. No answer should alarm somebody. All he had to do was stay alive until then. He almost laughed. All he had to do.

"Don't tell me you don't recognize me, Eppes. That would really hurt my feelings."

He fought with his left eye again, wrestling for focus. The hulking figure was crouched in front of him now, face to face. He blinked slowly, letting the details land. _Yeah, okay. You never forget one, not really. _"Soames."

The yellowed teeth stretched into a feral grin. "Yeah. Good for you. I'd hate to think that I spent the last seven years thinking about you and you didn't even remember me. You and Billy Cooper, all day and night. How is old Coop, anyway?"

Don remained silent, watching the lighted end of his cigarette stub warily.

"What, you don't want to talk? After I spent all that time waiting to talk to you? Went to all that trouble? I expected you last night you know - you're late."

Don studied him. "Thought you were in the slammer."

"I was paroled early for good behavior. Are you impressed? Course, I had a lot of incentive." He sucked deeply on his cigarette, released the smoke slowly. "Well, everybody else was impressed, anyway. I was a model prisoner. Worked hard at the 'new vocation program' - learned a lot about computers, research - I'm considered a fully rehabilitated man. Ready for a new life. Once I clean up a couple of loose ends from the old one, of course." He grinned, flicking ash from his cigarette. "Cooper is next. He's a little tougher to track down, on the road all the time. But I'll get him. I'll spend a little time with him, too. Let him get a sense of what it feels like - people picking through your past, through every intimate detail of your life…bursting into your place unannounced to take you down. Flashing on the lights to wake you out of a dead sleep, rousting you out of bed with your woman…I was waiting for you to bring home a woman, Eppes, so we could really relive old times. Wanted to get you a real sense of what it felt like, but I watched forever, and you never brought one home. What's the matter with you, Eppes, that you never bring home a woman?"

Don held his gaze. "Guess lowlifes like you keep me too busy to date, Soames."

It was like watching a grenade go off, sensation of an eruption in the atmosphere first, followed by a roar of sound. He saw the bat come up in a deadly arc and closed his eyes, bunching himself into as much of a ball as he could manage.

Aunt Irene had always said that that smart mouth of his would be the death of him one day.

Probably couldn't even guess how right she was.

000

David looked up from his computer as Megan approached. "He gonna be okay?"

"I think so. I think it was just a shock. He and Don can duke it out - make 'em both feel better." She rubbed her hands up and down her arms. "I tell you, I won't be sorry that Don has somebody with him - I have a bad feeling about this one. I can't categorize it, but I can't shake it either."

David smiled. "A hunch, huh?"

"Woman's intuition?" Colby suggested. When Megan didn't even muster a token glare, he lost his smile. "What, that bad?"

Megan shook her head. "I don't know. Maybe I could just use some sleep myself."

David sat back. "You seriously think Charlie's gonna be okay if there's trouble?"

"Don't know that either. But I do know that, with him around, Don will be like a mother lion with one cub. And that's not a bad thing."

Colby wrinkled his forehead. "You think maybe one of us should be heading over there?"

Megan made a face. "I don't know - can't come up with a real reason. And Don put a man on Charlie last night - I'm hoping that will about cover it."

David grinned, his eyebrows up. "Charlie know that?"

Megan smiled. "I'm gonna let Don tell him, thanks. If there's one thing I learned early, it's never get between two brothers."

Colby snorted. "Bet there's a story there."

"Yep. And you're never gonna hear it."

David poked at his keyboard to hide a covert smile. "How'd your lead pan out anyway - with the yearbooks?"

Megan shrugged. "Okay. Not great. The yearbooks were her husband's and she sold them, along with everything else he once owned and was foolish enough to leave behind apparently, as part of a messy divorce. She mailed them to a P.O. Box, since closed. The Post Office is trying to find out who paid for it, but right now it looks like cash across the counter. The books were also paid for with cash in an envelope, so there's not much of a paper trail. How about you guys?"

David and Colby exchanged glances. "We're actually dying to tell you, but we thought we'd be polite and listen to you first."

"Well, forget polite - just tell me!"

"Okay - " Colby pulled up a chair behind David. "So this guy - White - has been brokering murder-for-hire contracts and two were definitely Motta and Alderman. Turns out another _was_ Meyers - the AUSA chimes in that Meyers wasn't the insignificant witness that they led everybody to believe - they were keeping the spotlight off her just to prevent anything like this. But it looks like somebody leaked it or figured it out and - bam."

"Hit on Meyers."

"Right."

"What about Don?"

David shook his head. "White swears he didn't handle any contracts on a federal agent, or anyone by Don's name. Nothing on Connelly, either. But he _did_ remember the guy who got the contracts for Alderman, Meyers and Motta - "

"Same guy?"

"Same guy. He remembered him because he was so particular about the kinds of jobs he took. Made some snide remark about 'contract murder a la carte'. Contracts went to an ex-con named Mickey Soames."

Megan raised her brows. "You run Soames through the system yet?"

"We were gonna do that when we got back, but Charlie showed up…" David started typing in earnest. "I'm on it now."

Megan and Colby watched over his shoulder while the system thought and sorted. After a minute, a record filled the screen.

Megan ran her eyes down the page. "Well, lookee here, a multiple offender. How long has he been out?"

David paged down. "Just shy of six months."

"What was he in for?"

"Looks like…he murdered his girlfriend. Battery, blunt force trauma."

Colby leaned in to look. "And he's out?"

David scrolled the screen. "Murder 2, pled down to Manslaughter 1, paroled early for good behavior. Clean prison record."

Colby made a disgusted sound. "_Manslaughter 1?_ Boy, they spring em just as fast as we can lock em up. Sometimes you just gotta wonder if it's worth it."

Megan looked grim. "Yeah, well, contract killing is Murder 1. Not to mention threatening a federal agent. We get him this time and it's for life."

"Here's something," David interrupted. "Looks like he jumped bail, too. Took fugitive detail two months to round him up for trial."

"Fugitive Recovery?" Megan's brows soared.

Colby leaned right over the back of David's chair. "How much you wanna bet…?"

"Bingo." David stopped the screen. "Brought in by Fugitive Recovery team Eppes and Cooper."

Megan exhaled. "Track down his PO. He's gotta have an address on him."

"Hang on…" David hit a couple of keys. "Parole Officer: Carleen Frank."

Colby picked up the receiver. "I'll dial."

_TBC_


	16. Chapter 16

_A/N: Well, this delay I couldn't help, since I was down for the count. Every once in a while I get something so nasty that I almost feel badly about what I put the poor characters who fall under my pen. Almost. The only good news is that it should be smooth sailing from now on. _

Chapter 16

"What a dump." Colby wrinkled his nose at the lingering smells of cooking and stale beer and sweat and a few other things he chose not to think too hard about. "You'd think contract killing would pay better."

"I think the problem is more likely with the references." David jiggled the key the Super had provided, fighting it into the lock. "The nicer places tend to be a little sensitive when you list your previous landlord as 'State Pen'."

Megan held up the printouts in her hand, squinting in the dim lighting of the hallway. "Want me to try the key? I feel like we could be knifed right here in this hallway. And we're armed."

"Chances are these folks would just step over the bodies too…almost got it…" The key turned reluctantly in the lock and David pushed the door inward.

"Too bad," Colby said philosophically, lifting his gun. "I was kind of looking forward to breaking it down. Sure we shouldn't have somebody on the fire escape in case?"

Megan drew her gun on the other side of the door while David felt for the light switch. "That fire escape wouldn't hold _me_, never mind this guy - file says he's about 265 pounds. And that's the only other egress, according to the Super. Watch out for closets, though. This guy's MO is to punch first, ask questions later."

"Mickey Soames?" David called. He hit the light switch and the room barely illuminated with cloudy, yellow light. "FBI!" He moved slowly into the middle of the room, turning this way and that. "You think the hall looks bad?" he tossed over his shoulder as Megan closed in behind him. "Wait until you see this." He focused on a room across the way and inclined his head toward it. Megan nodded and moved to another doorway just past it. David kicked the door in, yelling "FBI!" Silence greeted him. Megan met his eyes and shrugged.

David entered the room, gun balanced in front of him.

Megan mirrored him in the smaller room. _Bathroom. Almost more of an alcove than a room, really._ She twitched back a mildewed shower curtain hiding a tub that took up most of the scant space and checked behind the door. "Nothing in the bathroom," she called, grimacing fastidiously. "Except a lot of mold."

She returned to the main room and stood in the doorway David had disappeared through. "How about you, David? Whoa - " She stopped short on the threshold.

David glanced up from a makeshift desk in the corner. "It's clear - of people, anyway." He had holstered his gun and was busy pulling on gloves. "We need a forensics team in here to collect evidence."

"Great," Megan reached for her phone and selected a speed dial button, calling over her shoulder, "All clear in here, Colby. But you might want to see this - " An FBI dispatch operator responded to her ring, and she spoke while picking her way around stacks of papers, skirting a foul-smelling mattress covered with rumpled sheets. "This is Special Agent Reeves, I need a forensic team at our last reported location and a BOLO on one Mickey Soames - "

By the time she had finished her report, Colby was standing in the doorway behind her. He gave a low whistle. "Wow. Jackpot."

"Yeah - " Megan crouched by a stack of bound volumes. "Lookee here - yearbooks…" She picked one up and leafed through it. "Right year…with a page missing in the D/E section." David was booting up the small computer sitting in a litter of paper on a rickety table. "We'll let forensics take the whole thing," she instructed, watching him. "Who knows what's buried on there, out of sight?"

Colby was rifling through a stack of printouts. "These are digital photos of Don - recent ones. Like - this week. Dated and everything." He picked up the sheets lying in the printer tray and stopped. His voice sounded gruff when he finally ground out, "Maybe you'd better have a look at this."

Megan unbent her knees and shifted until she could see over his shoulder, then snatched the sheet off the top of the pile. "Did anyone have any idea where Soames is? Because I think we'd better find him - fast."

David glanced up. "Super hadn't seen him since yesterday, but said that wasn't unusual. Had no idea where he goes - didn't show any steady employment on his application - what you got?"

"One more memento for Don. But this one's homemade." Megan held up the sheet of paper so he could take it in. "An obituary."

000

_Probably…_Don struggled to pry his eyes open. The lids shivered, but didn't part. _Probably…there were better forms of stalling…the kind that left you alive when help showed up…Soames was…what was it the shrinks called it? Oh, yeah - volatile. Poor impulse control. Though this whole routine seemed pretty darned calculated_… He would have laughed, if he could have scraped together the energy. Impulse, calculated…one way or another, he was pretty much screwed. He could sense the shifting of large boots near his head. And one way or another, he was damned if he was going down easy.

He struggled to roll onto one side and push himself up, his hands like dead weights behind him, his shoulders screaming at the fixed strain. Something wet and sticky coated the back of his neck, gluing the remains of his t-shirt to him. He tried not to think too much about what it was or how long it had been there…_focus on what you can do, don't panic about what you can't_. He felt the wall behind him and pushed back into it, trying to support himself, managed to lift himself a careful inch off the floor.

Almost instantly, there was a swift stirring nearby and the breath exploded from his lungs with a woof. Something splintered in his chest with an audible crack and an eruption of agony engulfed his left side. Struggling to breathe, he felt the floor pressing into his face once more, cool and hard against his battered right eye, the pulse in the lid beating in time with the cleaver splitting the back of his skull. He ground his teeth until his jaw ached to keep from groaning. _This was really getting old._

"See, Eppes? This is what it's like to be helpless. This is what it's like when somebody else calls the shots."

He turned his head, cheek flat against the floorboards, opened his mouth to answer and coughed instead, bringing up blood and spittle, the pain the motion triggered in his ribcage almost sending him under. He clenched his jaw harder, squeezing his eyes shut, reaching deep inside for some core of strength. _Or, what the heck - stubbornness will do in a pinch._ He opened his mouth again, spat more blood. "You know, Soames…" It came out in a wheeze, but he was mildly impressed that he could get anything out at all. "I don't remember this portion of our last meeting."

"Yeah?" He could see Soames' heels rise as he sank into a crouch next to him. "I guess it wasn't. This part of our program is supposed to give you a taste of life in prison. I wouldn't want you to miss out on anything, Eppes."

"Prison." _This would be a calculated risk. _He wished he could figure how much time had passed, but his sense of time and space was badly fractured - it felt like forever. No way to pace himself - he'd just have to fly blind. "I remember. How is it you ended up there again?" He could sense the tension in the figure next to him, saw the large, meaty hands drop between the jean-clad knees. "Yeah - Shawna. You killed her, huh?"

The hands tightened into fists, then released. "It was an accident. I was just teaching her a lesson."

"Uh huh." Don coughed again, setting fire to his chest, had to take a minute before he could continue. "What - was it she did again?"

The hands twisted, then hung still. "She burned my dinner. I just wanted to remind her. To teach her."

"Right." The floor heaved unexpectedly and Don closed his good eye, hoping to still the slow undulations. A chill of sweat broke out on his upper lip. "Guess you showed her - huh?"

"It was an accident. I miss her," Soames sounded sullen. "I just wanted her to learn."

"Yeah. Sure." Don kept his breathing shallow to avoid aggravating the slow burning in his chest. "Course, she was - what? Hundred twenty pounds?" He paused, chasing an elusive breath. The sweat had spread to his scalp now, coating it. "Not much of a - match. For a guy like you. And me - cuffed." His body felt heavier now, sinking into the resistance of the wooden floor. "So - tell me - you ever beat up on anybody - that has a chance of fighting - back…?"

Soames roar of anger was expected and he steeled himself, biting the inside of his cheeks until they bled. The massive fingers dug bruisingly into his biceps, lifting him, shaking him. He got a wheeling glimpse of the clock - not good news - looked like this would be up to him - and closed his eyes to steady himself. Concentrating every remaining scrap of strength, he kicked out with all his might, felt Soames knee give under the blow and the world tilt dramatically, then fall away all together with a crash. They went down in a heap - him, Soames, and the nightstand, clock and reading material and cell phone flying in every direction. It was the cell phone he tried to keep track of - he couldn't do much with his hands the way they were, but he should be able to hit a speed dial button - all of them, if necessary.

He landed on top of the heap and forced himself to keep moving, to roll off of Soames' form stirring sluggishly under him, choked down a cry as he hit the floor and the bones in his chest grated against each other warningly. Digging his heels into the floor, he pushed himself toward the small phone, groping for it with confined and swollen hands. His tingling fingertips just brushed plastic, just for a second, then, with a jerk that awoke every injury, he was airborne again. His back rammed the wall with such force that the world flickered and dimmed, black at the periphery, the only remaining sensation the iron bar across his throat, pinning and holding him there, blocking his air. He tried to reach the floor with his feet, to relieve the pressure, but Soames held him effortlessly.

"You stupid son of a bitch," he hissed in his ear. "You in some kind of a hurry to die? Just to cheat me? What do you think, will Cooper come to your funeral? Pay his last respects? That's one way to flush him out, huh? So I can pay mine?"

A thin, high, ringing, like keening, in his ears, and part of him wished to God that he could just give in to it - find his way to merciful unconsciousness before the next round. He was teetering on the brink of darkness when he heard the sound, so at first he thought it was in his foggy head. Then he felt Soames stiffen and realized it wasn't.

"What the hell…?" Soames grumbled. "What the hell is that? I cased this place - nobody ever comes here."

_No kidding. But with any luck, maybe it's Megan or David or Colby. And a really big gun. _

Soames arm loosened on his throat and he sucked in a breath while he could, torturing his chest.

The knock came again, and Soames lowered him, keeping him pinned to the wall with a hand to his chest. They waited. The knock repeated, then a key scraped in the lock and the knob rattled. The knock was louder this time, as though the sound was coming through an open door.

"Don?"

Don felt the heart turn over in his chest.

"Hey, Don, It's me - you home?"

_TBC_


	17. Chapter 17

_A/N: I promise this vein will not go on forever , but the only way I know to get where I'm going is step by step._

Chapter 17

_**NO. **_

_Nononononononono_…

He had nightmares like this…twisted dreams that shook him awake in the middle of the night, steeped in his own sweat, and left him restlessly pacing the confines of the small apartment until dawn, trying to outrun them. Almost, almost he could believe it was another one of those - he really wanted to believe it - but there was that lingering smell of cigarette smoke and the ominous creaking in his chest and the thundering under his scalp that was all too painfully, vividly real to be a dream.

"Don?" The voice came again, closer this time.

"Ssssh." Soames hand moved threateningly from his chest to encircle his throat.

_Yeah, that's really necessary, because I'm REALLY looking to have him run in here and break this up…go on, Charlie - GO. Leave. Get out of here. Go home. NOW. _

_Of course, if you want to send the cavalry back, that would be okay too…_

Soames leaned in closer, warning him, and he tried not to choke on the oppressive stench of stale smoke and old sweat. _What's with these felons anyway, do they forget how to bathe in prison? _

"Hey, Don?"

_Come on, buddy - nobody here you need to see - a polite guy would just pick up and go - right out the front door - before Soames gets any other ideas_…

The thought of Soames trying out his particular brand of justice on Charlie made his gorge rise so forcefully that he almost gagged. He closed his eyes and prayed…dozens of fragments of half-remembered rituals, no less heartfelt for being neglected.

The sound of footsteps came closer, then hesitated.

_That's it, Chuck, there's nothing here to see_…he squeezed his eyes tighter shut, trying to winnow his senses down to acute hearing, made out the soft shuffle of feet. Soames grip on his throat tightened and he wasn't sure he quite managed to suppress a gulp for air. He swore inwardly. _Come on, Charlie - you didn't hear anything…nothing going on here…go, go, go, go…_

The feet shuffled again on the floorboards, and he hardly dared hope they were actually headed in the opposite direction.

_Okay, Charlie - it's not that long a damn hall - out the door - come on - out! Then get as damned far away from here as you can manage. Fast!_

The feet paused again and he thought his heart would burst in his chest.

_For the love of GOD, Charlie…!_

The doorknob rattled, and the sound of the latch giving hung in the air.

_Okay, now go THROUGH the door. Get on the other SIDE of the door. Close it BEHIND you…! _

Don had his teeth clenched so hard that his sinuses reverberated with pain. Dampness stung the corners of his eyes. Soames leaned in closer, flattening him into the wall, and only the thought of Charlie coming running at the sound of the ensuing commotion stopped Don from kneeing him where it would do the most good.

_What the hell is your problem anyway, you stupid behemoth? What exactly is it you think I can do here with my hands cuffed and in this shape? _

He held his breath, trying to block out the wall of human flesh and concentrate only on the soft noises in the hallway. The knob rattled again. His temples throbbed with the strain of not breathing and grey splotches swam behind his eyes. There was a soft click as the door snicked closed.

For a second Don still held his breath, not at all sure the sound wasn't really a combination of imagination and wishful thinking. The seconds ticked on as he waited, frozen in time with Soames. No other sound came, and his knees dissolved abruptly, only Soames' huge hand keeping him upright.

"Jesus." Soames rumbled a laugh. "You should see your face. That was worth about a million bucks."

Don carefully sipped in a breath, his stomach churning with relief, but his limbs frigid and stiff with anger. _Charlie should be at the elevator by now…out of hearing range…_almost without thinking, he jerked his knee up.

His crumpled ribcage slowed him down and it was an imperfect blow, only half-landing. Soames' bark of pain and indignation was followed almost immediately by retribution - Don's head snapped to the side, a red fireball igniting along his cheekbone, spreading to his eyeballs. Soames released him and he dropped. Without his hands to break his fall, he met the floor leadenly on his chest, sharp edges inside meshing and driving deep. This time he did vomit.

"Puh." Soames sounded disgusted. Something solid prodded his shoulder, then slid under it and flipped him onto his back - he assumed hazily only once, but the room seemed to keep flipping for some time to come. "What's the matter, Eppes? Can't take it?"

Don turned his head and spat, trying to rid his mouth of the foul taste. "Think it's - the quality - of the company…" he gasped.

He caught a glimpse of Soames' face and closed what worked of his eyes again.

_Yeah, okay, Eppes. Someday you've got to really learn when to zip it._

000

Charlie paused with his hand hovering over the door. He had seen Don's SUV in the complex parking lot, so he knew he was home, but if he was really sleeping, he hated to wake him. On the other hand, Don was a light sleeper and he didn't want to let himself in only to find a pistol shoved in his face, either. Wouldn't be a good way to start this conversation for either of them. On the other, _other_ hand, he couldn't stand out here in the hallway all day. Determined, he let his knuckles drop lightly against the door panel and waited. Nothing.

He made a face, knocking a little louder. "Don?" he called. If Don was sacked out on the couch, he would definitely hear that. If he was actually asleep in his bedroom, it was harder to say.

Still no answer. Well, he couldn't just stand out here like a visiting burglar, and he was determined to follow through on his plan to stick to Don like glue, so he pulled out his key to Don's apartment and inserted it in the lock, turning it gently. The lock gave smoothly and he pushed the door inward.

"Hey, Don, it's me - you home?" No gun, cocked and loaded, greeted him. Neither did anything else. He pushed the door in further, tapping lightly.

Silence. But it didn't exactly seem like the silence of an empty apartment. Puzzled, he paused on the threshold, wrinkling his nose. _What was that smell…? Smelled like…cigarettes. _Don didn't smoke. He couldn't think of any friends he had who smoked either, not that he claimed to be a particular authority on that subject…

Cautiously, he stepped into the entryway, feeling intrusive and uneasy all at the same time. _Could Don have a woman with him…? _He felt a flush rise in his cheeks at the thought. Don would _really_ not thank him for intruding if that was the case…he took a step backward, then stopped. Okay, wait a minute - Don taking a nap in the middle of a case wasn't unheard of - sometimes he grabbed sleep where he could - but the thought of him taking a couple of hours off to get a little action…that suddenly struck him as so absurd that he frowned. _So what…?_

An inexplicable chill shuddered over his back and he bit his lip. Something just felt so…wrong. He took another step.

"Hey, Don?" He made his voice a littler louder this time. Even dead asleep, Don should hear it. He thought he just barely caught an odd noise - a sibilated syllable and a sound like an intake of air, and he took another step toward it. _Maybe Don is having a nightmare._ He was halfway to the bedroom door when he stopped dead in his tracks, his stomach heaving into his throat.

_Oh. God. What was…? _He reached delicately toward the wall, thinking that if he could just touch that dark sea fan spattering the paint he would find that it was really only…only…what else could it be? It had to be…he looked down at his feet, and the turgid puddle, nearly touching his sneaker toes, was almost his undoing. He bent over double, hooking his hands behind his neck and trying to breathe, fighting not to noisily lose his lunch then and there. Evidence, he lectured himself vaguely. This is evidence, a crime scene - Don would say not to disturb…oh, God, Don - what…?

_A crime scene. At Don's apartment. _He closed his eyes, willing himself to keep breathing, slow and even. _All that blood_…he took another step toward the bedroom, jerked to a stop, his eyes riveted on something leaning in the corner, by the door. He might not know everything about Don, but this much he was sure of - he never had, and never would, own a sawed-off shotgun. He'd heard him refer to them as 'barbaric'. So, odds were - and he was something of an expert on odds - that someone else had been…and probably still was…

He turned abruptly, trying not to run, and headed back down the short expanse of hallway. Megan had said to call in. That's what he needed to do. He needed help.

He slipped out the door, instinctively trying not to make any noise, and pulled it closed behind him with a pointed click. Fumbling for his cell phone, he took a few steps down the outer hall, glancing urgently back at the door, as though he expected to see something there. His cell phone skipped from his fingers and slid along the hallway runner and he stumbled after it, trying to scoop it back up, his eyes watering with terror and frustration. Bending to retrieve it nearly sent him toppling, and he sat down hard, clutching it to his chest and leaning into the wall for support. He gave himself two heartbeats to steady himself - he didn't dare spare more - then shook the cell phone open and fumbled for the right speed dial button.

The ringing went on so long he thought he would scream, though, logically, he figured it couldn't have been more than three actual rings. When Megan's voice, warm and familiar and reassuring, came on, he nearly cried with relief.

"Megan," he breathed

"Hi, Charlie." She sounded as cheerful as ever, but a little rushed. "What's up?"

"I'm at Don's…" he had to take a breath - his heart seemed to be blocking his esophagus, and things swirled a little around him. "Something's…I think something's really, really wrong. I think you should come."

Megan's voice changed instantly, crisp now, and professional. "What's wrong, Charlie? Where's Don?"

"He's - " he broke off, a little thrown. He didn't know, actually, where Don was - not for sure. "I think - Megan, there's blood all over the hall wall, and there's - cigarette smoke - I - I think - "

"Okay, Charlie. Okay. Just take it easy and listen to me, okay? Charlie?"

He let his head rest back against the wall and breathed in and out, slowly and carefully. _I will not hyperventilate. This would be a really bad time to hyperventilate_…

"Charlie?"

Megan's voice was sharper now, and he lifted the phone to his mouth again. "I'm here."

"Okay - good. Charlie, we're headed that way right now - right this minute - okay? But even with the sirens, our ETA is about twenty minutes, so here's what we're going to do: I'm going to contact LAPD and see if they have a black and white in the area they can send over. I want you to leave the building right now - right NOW, Charlie - and go downstairs and wait outside for the black and white or us - whichever gets there first. Wait right in front of the building. Start now."

Charlie nodded, realized that she couldn't hear the nod and stammered. "O - okay."

"Good. I'll see you soon, Charlie. Just sit tight. Everything's gonna be okay."

Charlie nodded again, remembered again that that wouldn't carry over the phone, but couldn't find the air to verbalize this time. He could hear the sounds of movement and hustle in the background, could visualize Megan and David and Colby pulling on vests and grabbing for tactical information. The sounds offered him a thread of comfort.

He shut the cell phone and crushed it between his clammy palms, trying to find the will to stand.

Go outside and wait, she had said. Megan knew what she was talking about. He should listen to her. Don would expect him to listen to her. His breath froze in his throat.

_Don._

He hadn't even seen Don. He hadn't heard him. For all he knew, Don was…_NO_. No, he wouldn't even…but Don could be hurt. He could need - medical attention. There was all that blood. He had left without even finding out…he frowned at the door down the hall.

Megan had said to go outside and wait. Okay. Okay, he could do that. But first he just had to make sure…using the wall for support, he eased himself back to his feet. Hand skimming the wall, he walked as noiselessly as he could, until he was standing right next to the door. He hesitated. Megan would be furious. Don would be really, REALLY furious. But Don would have to be alive to be angry. He was willing to risk the one to be sure of the other. He pressed his hand, palm wide, against the door panel. And Don would never, never walk away on him in similar circumstances. He leaned his ear against the door, trying to listen. Of course, Don had training, and he carried a gun, which he would be quick to point out if Charlie tried that argument, but…he could just hear a voice through the door - not a familiar one, not Don's - and then a muffled thump. Before he could even think about it, his hand was on the knob, turning it carefully, slowly, soundlessly. The door swung gently inward. He stood, rooted to the spot, a hand braced on either side of the doorframe. What the heck did he think he was doing?

The voice came again - the unfamiliar one - but he couldn't quite make out the words. It was followed almost immediately by another one, and this one, though faint and airless, he knew as well as he knew his own. He ground his forehead against the lintel, nearly sick with relief. _Thankgodthankgodthankgod…_

There was another sound, like the slap of a boxing glove hitting a full-sized punching bag, followed by pained grunt, and his head snapped up again. _What…? _

He didn't remember walking through the door, but suddenly there he was, in the apartment hallway, eyes straining painfully toward the bedroom. _That sounded like…? _He winced as the sound came again, ducking his head. _Oh, God. _What could he…? How could he…?_ Help is on the way. Help is coming._

_Help_…reminded a little voice in his head…_is twenty minutes out_.

_Twenty minutes. _His heart shivered in his chest. It sounded like forever now. What if Don couldn't hold on for twenty minutes? Was he supposed to just walk away, knowing that up here…this was going on? And if Don didn't…that is, how would he feel if…while he waited downstairs…? He stared at the partly open bedroom door, then back at the front door. What should he do?

Something taped inside the front door caught his eye and he stopped, reached forward to touch it, let his hand drop. He licked suddenly dry lips, his head light, but clear with resolve.

Okay, that settled it. Twenty minutes might not be good enough. It looked like it was up to him.

_TBC_

_A/N: Oh, come on - you knew it wasn't going to be that simple._

_P.S. I was mean LONG before I got sick. _


	18. Chapter 18

_A/N: tdei, the thought of Charlie talking Soames to death was nearly irresistible, but since it's not where I was headed, I figured I'd better stay the course. Have no fear - Charlie isn't totally oblivious to his shortcomings in this case, but sadly, intellect is rarely all that helpful in emotionally charged situations. Experience is much more handy._

_Thallbadhat, I didn't even think about the phone. That would have been cruel. And my cruelty does have some bounds. Really. _

Chapter 18

Megan did a final check on her ammo, driving the clip home and making sure it engaged. "Who's got the file?"

"Me." David tightened the straps on his vest, then reached across for the manila folder. "Where is Charlie? What did he say?"

"Yeah - " Colby shoved his pistol into its holster. "That sounded like more than a mathematical breakthrough."

"Does Soames smoke? Does the file say?"

David raised his brows slightly at her avoidance of both questions, but skimmed the files as they walked. "Uh…distinguishing characteristics…yeah. Chain smoker. Lucky Strikes. Sheesh. We get him, we won't have to worry about the death penalty - he's killing himself."

Megan had her phone out. "Charlie's at Don's. He says something's wrong - that he smelled cigarette smoke and that there was blood in the hallway."

Colby and David looked at each other, then at her.

"Where's Don?" David asked at last. "Did he say?"

"I didn't get the impression that he'd seen him - " Megan found the button she was looking for on the phone and pressed. "I didn't want to push for too much information - he seemed pretty rattled. I just wanted to get him out of there and then get moving. I'm going to try and contact the agent Don had them put on Charlie - see if they've got any better information. Somebody want to try Don's cell, just in case? Could be a false alarm."

Colby opened his mouth and closed it again. He looked like he wanted to say something, but decided against it. Instead, he waited, eyes watching David's face as he stood with the phone tucked against his ear. After a minute, David lowered the phone and shook his head.

"What!? Whose decision was that?" Megan's raised voice made them both look at her instead. She listened a moment longer, brow tightly furrowed. "All right, all right - I know. Then I need a backup team to Agent Eppes' home address - _now_. Show our team in transit for there as well." She pushed the 'end' button with more force than was really necessary and gestured toward the car.

"What?" Colby clambered into the back seat, slamming the door behind him.

Megan made a face, barely giving David time to close the passenger side door before hitting the accelerator. "They released the agent on Charlie when he reached Don's - figured since he'd be _with_ an agent, coverage was redundant."

"Great," grunted David. "Budget just rules, doesn't it?"

Megan made a disgusted sound in her throat. "I'm assuming no answer on Don's cell?" David shook his head. "Check back with Charlie. See if the black and white is there - tell him we're on our way."

000

_Charles Edward Eppes, for an intelligent man…_

That was usually his father's line. He never actually finished it, but they both knew how it ended and, right now, he had to admit it had some merit. …_for an intelligent man, you do some really dumb things. _

Like this.

Having made the decision to take some sort of action, he was embarrassingly aware that he had no idea what that action should be. He had some vague hypotheses…that the blood was Don's…that Don was hurt and in danger…but absolutely no real data. He knew there was another person, but he had no idea who, male or female, what size, how dangerous, armed or unarmed…

_Okay. _If they'd taken down Don, he could probably safely postulate 'pretty dangerous'. He'd only had glimpses of Don in action once or twice, but the speed and decisiveness with which he'd reacted had left Charlie breathless. To get the drop on him couldn't be any mean feat, even factoring in Don's state the previous night.

_Male or female_…he closed his eyes and tried to hear the voice he'd made out through the door in his head. Male, probably. It had seemed like a low voice. Or else those cigarettes had made some woman's voice really husky…

_What size? _He glanced at the blood-spattered wall, but his mind went blank. Maybe a criminalist could figure something from looking at that, but whenever he saw it, all he could think about was…. his Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. Maybe it was better if he didn't look there at all.

_Who…_no clue. Don had been in law enforcement for a little over ten years. Even some loose mental calculations on people who might desire to do his brother harm - arrested felons with a grudge, relatives of arrested felons, other law enforcement officials gone bad - made him dizzy, the numbers multiplying and compounding rapidly in his head to a horrifyingly large figure. Better to stay away from that, too. Which left him with - no real useful data. He hated being without data.

_How about armed or unarmed_… He glanced to the corner that held the sawed-off shotgun, felt his stomach shrivel.

_Gone. _

Wait a minute - it had been - he glanced toward the bedroom door again, his heart beating fast. Maybe whoever had been here left while he was phoning Megan? He took another step toward the bedroom door, stopped, not quite ready to step around the black-red pool of blood, drying and crinkling at the edges.

_No. _He'd heard the voice since. Whoever it was, was still here and armed…

Without his conscious volition, his brain ran hypothetical specs on the size of the ammo in such a gun, barrel width, pounds of pressure, velocity…size of the prospective hole said ammo would leave exiting a body…

His head reeled, and he leaned his forehead into the door lintel again and tried not to get sick. _Don's body_…Because why else would somebody reach for a gun unless they expected to use it…?

He glanced desperately at his watch again, calculating against Megan's ETA. He winced. _Sixteen minutes to go_. How long did it take to blow a big hole in somebody? Not even a minute. How long did it take somebody to die from a gunshot wound…? He didn't want to find out.

He closed his eyes, trying to think, ironic because, as his father was wont to say, thinking was something of a perpetual state with him. He heard the rustle of voices and his spine tightened. Except this was Don's area of expertise, not his. This time, he needed to think like Don. What would Don do? More importantly, what would Don do that he could also do?

Don had once told him that, when in doubt, he did what he had always done in school - faked it. Charlie had frankly thought he was crazy. But it had worked - and now it sounded like as good an idea as any. What he needed, he decided, was time - to slow things down - stall until help could get here. He needed a distraction.

He glanced around. He could slam the door - that would get somebody's attention - for about a second anyway. Not for anything like sixteen minutes, though. The bathroom was across from the bedroom - he could sneak in there and create some kind of noise - but then he would be cornered, and he wasn't at all sure he could hold somebody off for sixteen minutes - he glanced at his watch. _Fifteen now_.

The stranger-voice picked up again, louder, and he froze. He still couldn't quite make out the words, just a cold, sneering quality that did funny things to his stomach. This time he heard Don answer, his voice strained and breathless and angry. There was a half second pause, then a moist and yielding thud and a sharp, explosive whoosh of pain. And another. And another. Charlie clapped his hands over his ears, trying to block the sounds out, then set his teeth and forced himself to peel his hands away. That wouldn't help, he scolded himself. Painful as it was to listen to, he needed to pay attention. The sounds came again and he gripped the door lintel, knuckles white. _Fourteen minutes! Who could survive this for fourteen minutes…?_ There was another sound, the snip and click of a shotgun being readied, and he dropped his hands, eyes wide.

_No. _He needed to do something - he needed to do something _NOW! _He looked around wildly. His eyes fell on the table by the door. Don's belt was bunched up there, his telephone and his handcuffs missing from their usual places but…Charlie sucked in a breath. His gun was there.

He stared at it. He had only held and fired a gun once before - a rifle, safe on a range and aimed at a paper target, the gun propped and ready and Don standing next to him, patiently offering instruction. He had never touched a hand gun. He had seen Don shoot one, of course - seen Megan, and David and Colby…tentatively, he touched the gun butt, slid it half out of its holster. The texture felt heavy and foreign under his palm.

Not that he would have to shoot it. All he had to do was…point it. Point it and keep pointing it for…_thirteen and a half minutes_. Maybe less. Just - stop things. Until help could get here.

He picked it up, testing the weight. It was heavy and awkward, his fingers curling clumsily around it. He tried lifting it at an arm's length and it wavered wildly. _Two hands. Don used two hands. _He tried bracing it with his left hand and that felt better, though the barrel shook up and down alarmingly. _How did anybody keep one of these things steady…?_ He closed his eyes tight. _It doesn't matter, Charlie - you aren't going to shoot anybody, you're just going to surprise them. Stop things. Stall them. Keep Don alive until help comes._ Eyes still closed and arms extended, he took a careful step down the hall, then another. The voices were clearer here. He took another step. There was another sharp thud and a snapping sound, followed by Don's harsh cry of pain. His eyes flew open, his heart drumming with anger and fear.

_Stop it, stop it, stop it! _

For the first time he could remember, his brain somehow skipped right over thinking and flew straight to instinct. He tightened his sopping palms around the wobbling gun grip and took a deep breath.

_Point. All you have to do is point. And…what would Don do?_ _Oh, yeah. _

Awkwardly, he took one more step - and kicked the door in.

000

He hadn't meant to fuzz out, but somewhere along the line he had lost his grip and things had gone grey. He became slowly reacquainted with the cold pressure of the floor under his ear and shifted his head cautiously, trying to see, to place Soames. How long had he been…? He heard the echo of booted feet on the floor near his head and Soames obligingly crouched down next to him.

"You back with us?" he grinned. "Hate for you to miss out on anything, Eppes."

_Yeah. God forbid. _He experimented with stretching his limbs, stopped abruptly as a shift in his ribcage brought the blackness rushing back in at the edges. He suspended his breath, letting things settle. _Slow. Move nice and slow. _He swallowed, trying to moisten his arid mouth. "Miss…me?"

"Just want to make sure you know what's going on."

There was a solid thud against the floor and he blinked, trying to focus on the new image that appeared in front of his eyes. It took him a few minutes, but he did manage to gradually identify the familiar shape of a shotgun stock.

_Okay - this is not good news. Kind of tough to outsmart one of those. Not that you've actually been showing much on the winning side of the scoreboard so far. _

"…s'different." _Slow. Give yourself a chance to regain a little focus, a little strength. Damn cold on this floor, though._

"Nothing but the best for you. Eppes."

_What a guy. _"Why not…" _Slow. Take your time. Find your breath. _"…just smash my…skull…like the others?" _Full sentence. Not bad. Just give yourself a little time. Be nice if Soames could have a humanitarian moment and toss down a blanket or something. Freezing down here._ He half smiled, felt the movement pull on his swollen cheekbone. _Yeah. That's likely._

"The others?" Soames snickered. "The others were just money, Eppes - you're a whole special project. I wanted it to last - just like it lasted those months you dogged me across the country, snapping at my heels. How do you like it so far?"

_Rhetorical question, no doubt. That's okay - talking is okay. Burns time. _"Money?" _Phew. Easy, easy…slow. _"Who…?"

This time Soames guffawed outright. "Who? What, you think you're gonna get a chance to arrest them? I don't even know - it was just an arrangement. Profitable, though. Helped pay for my research."

_Uh-huh. Big escalation from Murder 2, but what the heck - if you're going to kill a couple of federal agents, taking a few extra people out was all in a day's work. _He frowned, a sudden pain pinching his chest. "J.D. Why…?"

"Man, you just can't stop asking those questions to the end, can you?" But Soames still sounded amused, cocky - and hopefully, careless. "J.D. Now which - ? Oh - the kid at the gym?" Don didn't answer, just watched the wooden shotgun stock in front of his eyes, the blurrier image of the akimbo legs behind it. "Naw - that was a free-bee. Kind of my calling card to let you know I was coming for ya. Bugged you, huh? I knew that one would get to you."

_Get to me. You SOB. _

A surge of rage shot from Don's head though his core to the soles of his feet, burning in his face, warming him, giving him a spark of momentum. He used it to drop from his side to his stomach, his shoulder nudging the gun stock, shifting it, knocking the balance out from under Soames' crouch. Soames slewed and landed in a splatter of arms and legs, bumping up against him. Don groped with his legs, the one reliable body part remaining to him, found Soames calves and wrapped around them and squeezed, working his way up to more vulnerable territory; then, magically, Soames rolled and was on top, shotgun butt raised.

For a second Don thought he was going to get his skull crushed after all, but the stock flew by his ear and drove into his upper arm instead, with a raw snapping noise that might have been the force of the wooden butt hitting the floor, or might have been…him. A black blossom of pain darkened his senses and he only distantly heard his own yell.

"God, Eppes," Soames dragged Don half-upright by the tattered remnants of his tee shirt, puffing a laugh. "You sure as hell don't quit. Dumber than dirt, but you ain't a quitter. Too bad - if you'd quit on me all those years ago, this might have ended different."

_Yeah. Dumb. Probably._ But damn it, he had to try, and to hear poor J.D. talked about like that…like his life wasn't worth anything…and to know for sure…he closed his eyes, struggling to blot out a pain far more lethal than any Soames had inflicted so far…_to know for sure that he really had only died because… _

"You bastard…" he breathed.

"Sticks and stones, Eppes." He heard some vaguely familiar movements, grasped to identify them through the fog that shrouded him. "Too bad. I'm almost tempted to leave you to die here, nice and slow, but a stubborn SOB like you might just find a way to hang on." Now he cataloged the sounds - readying the shotgun, bullet in the chamber. "It's been nice doin' business with you."

He sucked in a breath. _Out of chances, then. _Well, he'd always known this was as likely a way as any for things to end…the most likely, maybe…he opened his eyes again, stared at Soames and waited.

The sharp slam of something against wood, followed by the crunch of metal on plaster, made them both jump. Soames craned over his shoulder, gaping at the bedroom doorway, for a moment startled into immobility. Don followed his gaze, blinking to bring things into focus.

For a second he wasn't sure he hadn't already passed over to the other side; it seemed such an odd and unexpected combination of so many familiar things, then he thought he might be hallucinating, or having a crazy dream.

Or another nightmare.

He squinted a frown and tilted his head, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. The room tilted with him, adding a surreal touch. _Surely that wasn't…not really…_

His eyes traveled upward, stopped on the pale face. Something in the expression shook home the truth and he stared blankly, disbelieving.

No, not one of his nightmares: he had never imagined, even in their most terrifying moments, anything remotely like this. He feared his nightmares, was haunted by them, but this…

He wanted to close his eyes, to blot it out, but he didn't dare look away.

_This…oh, God. This was worse. _

_Much, much worse._

_TBC_


	19. Chapter 19

_A/N: Oh, come on - you didn't really want some quick and dirty ending, did you? I hope not, because I don't know how to do that._

_(tdei, please don't resist, I thought it was hysterical. Thanks so much to everybody for hanging in there with me.)_

Chapter 19

"You reach Charlie yet?" Megan leaned into the turn as she navigated a corner.

"I'm trying!" David yelled back. "Maybe if you took even _one_ corner on more than two wheels…"

"Oh, don't be such a sissy." Megan reached out a hand for the small phone. "You'd think you'd never been in a hot pursuit before. Here - give me the phone - "

"I'll do it!" Colby hastily intercepted the cell phone before she could grab it. "You just keep your hands on the wheel - I mean _both_ hands."

Megan dodged deftly around a van, criss-crossing two lanes. "What's the matter with you guys? You've had high performance driving training."

"Yeah," Colby muttered, opening the phone. "And this is _still_ scaring me. That should tell you something."

Megan opened her mouth to offer a sarcastic retort, closed it quickly to focus on a slow-moving vehicle in front of her that failed to pull over.

"Um - which button?" Colby asked faintly, trying to pretend he didn't notice Megan's hairpin maneuver.

"Number six." David's eyes were on Megan. "Did you just flip that guy the bird?"

"Federal Agents do not flip the bird, Sinclair," she insisted demurely. "I was merely offering a salute to remind him that the law demands that drivers pull over for emergency vehicles."

"Yeah, you'll have to teach me that particular salute." He glanced into the back seat, watching Colby as best he could in the swaying vehicle. "How about it, Colby? Any answer?"

Colby was frowning in concentration, the phone pressed tight against his ear. After a minute, he shook his head. "I'm not getting an answer - maybe he's busy with the cops? Do we know if the black and white is there yet?"

"Uh uh." Megan resisted the urge to look over into the back seat. "I just spoke to him a little while ago - how can there be no answer? Try again."

"I'll try mine." Colby pulled out his cell phone, found the number and waited.

David braced himself as they took another corner. "Well?"

Colby shrugged. "Voicemail." He closed the phone slowly. "I don't have a good feeling about this."

Megan's hands tightened on the steering wheel. "I told him to go outside the building and wait - where could he be?"

There was an uncomfortable silence, then David pulled out his own phone. "I'm going to try mine - and then the LAPD." He paged through his numbers and shot a glance at Megan as the phone began to ring in his ear. "Come on, come on, Megan - what are you poking along for? Let's have a little speed here - _move_!"

000

_This can't really be happening. It's just some…goofy…subliminal…what the hell am I supposed to…? Dad's gonna kill me. Bare hands. No questions asked. _A dozen random thoughts pumped through Don's brain as he tried to wrap his mind around this newest development, heart crowding the back of his throat. _Oh, God, Charlie - what do I do now? Might be a good time to give the praying another try…_

He saw Charlie's glance brush over him and his eyes widen to fill half his face.

Don winced inwardly. _That bad, huh? _For a heart-stopping instant, it looked as though Charlie was going to drop the gun and run to him and Don went stiff with sheer terror, but one heartbeat later Charlie's eyes returned to Soames, his throat jerking in a convulsive swallow. The wave of relief that slammed through Don was so intense that for a moment his vision blackened. _That's right - look where you're pointing the gun, Charlie. Focus on that, buddy…_

"Baby brother, right?" Soames sounded half entertained, half wary, his eyes tracking the swaying gun muzzle pointed indefinitely in his direction. "Come to say good-bye?"

Don felt the shotgun rim, hard and cold, jab into his ear and stay there.

Charlie's mouth opened, but no sound came out; he tightened his death grip on the gun, arms trembling in front of him.

"Your timing's not bad."

Don was only half-listening to Soames, his attention fixed on Charlie. He had to get him out of here - get him out of this mess somehow.

_Yeah, good luck, pal…because you can't even get yourself out. Well, we can cross that one when we get to it - first things first. Charlie._

"You're just in time to watch."

The gun jerked in Charlie's hands and Don had to resist the urge to duck. If Soames had half a brain, this would be making him a little nervous. "Easy, Charlie," he murmured before he could stop himself.

"Shut up." Soames jammed the gun barrel sharply against his skull with a crack that made the world slew.

"Stop it!" Charlie's cry sounded breathless through the ringing in his ears, and Don thought he could detect tears just beneath the surface. "Or - or - I swear to God - I swear to God - "

Don struggled frantically to clear the miasma that fogged his vision. _You can pass out later, Don…for right now, just_…he felt Soames broad hand on his scalp, almost smiled when he realized that Soames couldn't get any real grip on his short hair and had to settle for twisting his fingers in the tenuous fabric of his undershirt shoulder instead. _Okay, that can't be providing much of a hold…might come in useful_…the world looked a little flat through his one good eye and had an alarming tendency to split into twins, but he tried to bring Charlie into clear focus, concentrating on the gun. He shifted a little, frowning, and Soames ground the shotgun muzzle against his ear warningly.

Funny. His eyes were anything but reliable right now, but he knew that gun like the hand at the end of his arm, and he could almost swear…he squinted at it again. Yeah. He could almost swear. Now he had to decide if that was good news or bad. He lifted his gaze to Charlie's face. It was white and fixed. He wished he could decide if speaking to him would be calming, or just a fatal distraction.

"Come on - why don't you put that thing down before you hurt somebody? You know you don't want to hurt nobody. You shoot me, and I could jerk on the trigger - blow your brother's head right off his neck."

Don flinched. _Yeah, thanks, Soames - that's my second favorite nightmare - my brains splattered all over the wall while Charlie watches_. But Soames still sounded amused, so he must be feeling pretty confident. That could help too. On the other hand, he kind of had a lot to feel confident about. He wanted to warn Charlie not to lower the gun or give it up no matter what, but he was afraid of pulling his focus away from Soames. He watched the pistol tip quaver, but Charlie still kept it pointed straight ahead.

_Good going, Charlie. That's good. Just hang tough. I'll think of something._

_Yeah. Like…? _

If Charlie made a run for it, what would happen? He might make it out of the apartment - he was smaller and quicker than Soames, but Soames was longer limbed and the thought of what could happen if he caught up with him_…_Don bit his lip. Okay - much too risky. Charlie was better off standing pat with the gun, but he wasn't going to be able to hold on forever. Keeping your arms in that position for an extended period of time was no mean feat, no one knew that better than him - a regular routine of push ups really helped. He didn't think Charlie was much of one for push ups, and besides, he looked like he could drop over at any minute.

Still, most of Soames' attention was fixed on the rocking pistol barrel, so Charlie had bought him a distraction - now it was up to him to make use of it. He tried to gather together the ragged remains of his strength, his gaze flitting from Soames to Charlie. Right now, Charlie was standing just far enough away - if Soames decided to make a grab for him, he'd have to let go of Don and lower the shotgun first. _Good. That was something, too._ All he needed now was an opening - even a sliver of one.

"Come on, professor," Soames sounded impatient, shifted a little closer. "Be nice if one of you stayed alive for your Papa, huh?"

Charlie flinched and fell back a step; Don swallowed the warning that would only draw Charlie's eyes away from Soames, clammy sweat from the effort sheening his skin.

"You just lower the gun, and I'll let _you_ stay alive. That's fair, right?"

The gun quivered. Perspiration dotted Charlie's upper lip. "Don - " he stammered.

_Christ, Charlie, don't listen to him! He's not going to let either of us live! _He must have made some sound of protest, because Soames shook him like a dog with a rat, the shotgun still tight against his ear.

"You behave! I wasn't talking to you!"

"D - don't!" Charlie's voice rose, high and loud and laced with hysteria. "L-leave him alone, or I'll - I'll - " His hands flexed on the gun butt, finger slick on the trigger. "I swear, I will - I'll - "

Soames backed up a step, pulling Don with him like an unwieldy appendage. "Okay - no more Mr. Nice Guy, kid. Put it down, or I'll shoot right now and they'll be scraping what's left of him into a basket. Imagine explaining that to daddy, huh? How you stood right there and watched while - "

The desperate look in Charlie's eyes was about all that Don could take. The gun shivered and jumped and Don coughed to take a breath. "Charlie - "

"I said that's enough!" Soames yanked on him, grabbing for bicep as the undershirt tore in his grasp, jerked him upright so his knees barely rested on the floor. Don felt the iron fingers band bruisingly into his flesh, tried to maneuver his feet under himself to stand. He just made out Charlie's inarticulate moan of terror and despair, saw the gun in his hands inscribe a soaring arc, felt the shotgun barrel dig deeper into the battered skin over his ear. Then there was an odd noise - a homey, familiar trill that sounded completely out of place in the tense atmosphere. For an instant, everything seemed to stop.

He saw Charlie glance automatically down at his jacket and Soames twist, searching for this new adversary, his shotgun instinctively swinging away from Don to seek the fresh threat.

_And that's about all the chance you're going to get_…even as he thought it, he was moving - not a graceful, purposeful, tactical move, more of a clumsy fall from a badly depleted body, but he used his inertia to add to his weight, one leg finding the vulnerable spot behind Soames nearest knee and pushing.

"Charlie, get DOWN!" His voice sounded hoarse and foreign, but he was surprised at how much volume he got behind it. He didn't get a chance to see whether or not Charlie obeyed…y_ou can think about that later…right now…right now…_because he and Soames were hitting the floor once more, a bone-jarring thud that rattled the disjointed cartilage in is chest and made his eyes water. The thunder of the shotgun discharging tore at his ears and the smell of gunpowder filled his nose.

They'd been down here before, he and Soames, more than once, and Soames had always come out the winner, so he needed to act right away - stakes were higher, he had more than his own life to worry about now - he had Charlie's too…he could feel Soames under him, momentarily winded, his shoulder blade digging into Don's breastbone. _Is that it, Eppes? That all you've got? _

_Not this time, Jericho - I've got one weapon left_. He dragged himself forward an inch, trying to ignore the sparks of pain that ignited along his torso.

This is going to hurt, he thought irrelevantly - and slammed his forehead into the back of Soames' skull.

He thought he felt Soames go limp underneath him, couldn't be sure - maybe it was him going limp…

Then everything was sucked away into blackness.

_TBC_

_PS I appreciate the patience - I usually don't post in progress and now I remember why - I really do hate to leave people hanging!_


	20. Chapter 20

_A/N: I actually beat myself almost as badly as poor Don when I fall behind posting. _

_I try to base the characters reactions as closely on show instances as possible and not to sanitize or change them, using episodes with similar circumstances - in this case, I used Charlie's reactions in "Rampage". It's important to me to be as true to the characters as created as possible, partly out of respect for the creators and actors, partly because that's what I like in fanfic myself. _

Chapter 20

"Donnie. Donnie. Donnie."

Don groaned inside. Man, he felt…_must've taken a header into home plate or something…_

"Donnie…"

He tried to lift his head and answer, but different sections of his scalp seemed to be moving all in independent directions, blinding him with broken pain, and he had to lie very still again to keep from swirling back into insensibility.

_Wow. Or more than a header…Go to Mom and Dad, Charlie…I'm not ready to get up yet…Everything hurts…_.

"Donnie…please…Donnie…"

Eh, shoot…Charlie sounded scared…he'd better…he should…he tried to move again, delicately, and stopped abruptly when giant fingers pushed into the crevices of his lungs, blocking the air. He paused, trying to suss out a speculative breath, then froze as the movement in his chest brought everything back in a rush.

OH. GOD. _CHARLIE_. And the gun…TWO guns, one of which at least had fired, but he had no idea…still, if Charlie could speak, that was something…and…wait a minute, wait a minute, _what_ was he calling him…? Oh, that was NOT a good sign…he needed to…_Soames_…he needed to…he pried his mouth open to ask Charlie about Soames, but somehow all that came out was a strangled groan.

"Donnie!" Charlie sounded pleased though, his voice congested but there, and that was good. He could feel light fingers tremble over him; his shoulders, his back, hesitantly brush his head. "Donnie. Don. Just…just…"

Okay, Charlie could talk, but he definitely didn't sound good. Don tried to turn his head just a little, to free his mouth to speak, gradually becoming aware of other sensations; the unmistakable odors of blood and gunpowder, and very near, the pervasive, mingling smells of cigarette smoke and poor hygiene. He lay still for a moment. Guess that told him where Soames was…he concentrated on the uneven landscape mounding beneath him. _Didn't seem to be moving anyway_. "You…okay?"

Charlie's breath hitched. "No," he burst out bluntly. Then, hastily, when Don shifted painfully to try and get a look at him, "I mean, I'm - I'm not - it didn't…hit me."

_Thank God. Thank God_. Don collapsed in relief and was still again, collecting stamina. But he'd like to get a look at Charlie for himself. He could feel Soames' deep and steady breathing under his cheek and frowned. _Still - first things first. _He tried again to pull himself up, more slowly this time, but somehow his limbs were reluctant to obey and he was still lying there. _I do NOT have time for this…damn_. _Well…_he took a careful breath. "Charlie…" _Okay, maybe another breath_…"I need you to…do something…for me."

He'd felt the feather-light pressure of Charlie's hands on his back at his first effort to rise, could sense a wild shaking there, echoed in his voice. "Don, help's - Megan and David and Colby are - are - on - they're coming."

Don tried out a nod, decided maybe that was something better avoided for now when the room flipped on its head, and he closed his eye again to resettle himself. "That's great - great work - but I need - my night table drawer - extra cuffs…" He wasn't sure Charlie was really hearing him in his present state, but after a second, he felt the hands leave his back and heard the shuffle of footsteps among the chaos along the floor. What seemed like an instant later, one of the hands returned to his back, shaking him lightly. _Damn. _Had he…? Damn, this was bad…he couldn't be…he needed to…

"Here they are."

He could make out the glimmer of metal handcuffs dangling before his face. _Good. Good, Charlie. Good man. _He cleared his throat, coughed at the slivers of pain the simple movement sent in both directions. "I need you to - cuff him." There was a befuddled silence, and he continued more urgently. "Charlie, I can't…can't…wait…if he…"

Charlie must have understood, because Don could feel him shift and tried to organize himself in a position to watch. It wasn't much, but at least he could offer moral support…He saw Charlie's forehead wrinkle with distaste as he picked up one of Soames limp hands, and he fought the urge to sigh. Probably the first time Charlie had ever had to handle somebody unconscious…probably the first time for a lot of things…Charlie had the cuff encircling Soames' wrist now and he remembered something else. "Not - too tight…"

Charlie choked on a laugh that sounded like it wanted to be a sob. "What - you're worried about his comfort?"

Don tried a smile. "Legalities…one fingertip…of space…" He could tell Charlie was trying to follow instructions, wished he could explain to him how to double lock them too, but he doubted he'd be able to find the breath, even if he could get his hands free to demonstrate. They'd just have to take their chances. He could see Charlie searching for Soames' other arm, watched him awkwardly wrestle it next to the first one. Under other circumstances, seeing someone Charlie's size subduing someone Soames' size might have made him smile, but now it just made his heart hurt. He noticed blood on Charlie's hands and had to swallow down a rising sickness at how incongruous it looked, how wrong. _God, I'm sorry, Charlie…so sorry…_

"Don?"

Well, at least he'd gone back to calling him by his adult name - that was a good sign - "Hm?"

"These keys - will they work - I mean, _your_ cuffs - ?"

_Oh. Good idea. _"Yeah - good - thinking…" Something else occurred to him. "The guns…where…?"

"I don't think he's going to jump up in handcuffs and make a grab for the guns." There was a thin edge of tension running through Charlie's voice.

Maybe not, but experience had taught him…"…Please." He heard Charlie's sigh, and more shuffling of feet and movement.

Finally, he heard Charlie ask, "…where…?"

Probably it didn't contain another round, but it never paid to take chances. "By…the door. Careful…shotgun…loaded…" _If he even knew how to be careful with a shotgun. This was just…all so…wrong…_

"Okay. _Now_ can I try to get you out of those…?" Charlie's voice rose and Don winced. He needed to - he _really_ needed to see how Charlie was…how he REALLY was…

"Sounds…good…" He felt Charlie's fingers against his right wrist now. Even through the dull numbness that had set in they felt like ice, fluttering at such a rate that Don couldn't imagine how Charlie was going to manipulate that tiny key into the lock. Still, after a few false starts, he heard the cuff ratchet open against the sudden release of its unnatural pressure. His arm dropped lifelessly to his side, thumping loudly against Soames' back. He let out a gasp of relief. There was a long pause, while he tried futilely to move his fingers.

"Don…" Charlie's voice sounded very small. "This one looks…um…"

"I know…" The other hand he could still feel, hot and throbbing as though it was ready to burst out of its own skin. _Probably not many stitches left there…_"Just…if you can, Charlie…" He hated to ask Charlie to touch it, but now that he had time to notice his individual pains, the pressure there was making him half-crazy for relief. Charlie's icy fingers actually felt good against his burning wrist. This time, the cuff didn't spring free, and he could feel Charlie picking nervously at it, trying to pry it loose from the furrow of swollen flesh. He grit his teeth hard, determined not to let a noise escape and make this any worse for Charlie. He heard the clanking as Charlie threw the cuffs aside, felt the soft whoosh of air as he rose to his feet.

"I'm going to get a towel - " his voice wobbled, and the footsteps abruptly disappeared across the hall. Don waited, estimating how much pain it would cost him to put some distance between himself and Soames. _Talk about unsavory bedfellows_.

"You don't have any clean towels…?"

The footsteps were back, and he wasn't sure he hadn't faded out again for a minute. "Behind…on the laundry…" Charlie's tongue click of disgust reminded him of his mother and for a moment, he almost smiled. A second later, he felt something wrap loosely around his bandaged left hand.

"We'll kill your pillow cases then instead. Would you - ?" Charlie stopped on a stutter. "Would you be more comfortable on your back…?"

And take the pressure off his chest? God, yes. "Please," he rasped.

There was a pause. "I might - it could hurt, Don…"

"Yeah?" Don managed a parody of a chuckle. "That'd be new." He felt Charlie's careful, uncertain fingers on his shoulders again. From the proximity to his skin, he could tell his undershirt was about gone. He steeled himself for what would come, worried about Charlie being able to maneuver his leaden weight, but the next thing he knew, Charlie was shaking his shoulder again, gentle but urgent. Oh, damn, had he…? He really needed to stop that.

"I'm - " he swallowed, felt Charlie's hand still. He turned his head to try and finally get a real look at him, realized Charlie had put a pillow under his head at some point. _Phew. That was better. _In fact, he had always liked his hardwood floors, but after spending so much time on them today, he was starting to see the advantages of carpet. He glanced at the wall, had to swallow down hard when he saw where the shotgun charge had torn a hole in the plaster and thought about where Charlie had been standing. _Close. So close. _

"Here - " He could make out Charlie sitting Indian style next to him on the floor, and tried to raise his better hand, the right one, to him, but it slapped heavily back to the floor. "Let me - see you - "

"I said I'm fine - " Charlie's voice broke on the last word and he buried his head in his hands. "Oh, God, Donnie. I nearly shot a man."

Don frowned, squinting at him, searching for wounds, injuries, gradually decided there were none. _Physical ones, anyway. _"No. You didn't." He tried his right arm again. It thumped awkwardly against Charlie's back, sounding more as if he was clubbing him than comforting him, but Charlie didn't seem to mind.

"I did." It was almost a whisper. "I - never thought I had it in me, but - when I saw - what he did to you - " His voice dropped even lower. "I thought he was going to kill you."

Don was quiet. "Yeah. Well. That was the plan." He felt Charlie's violent trembling, even under his half-dead arm. "Come on. Head between your knees. Deep breaths." His arm seemed disinclined to budge again so he just let it rest across Charlie's back. "Deep. Take…your time…"

Charlie lifted his head, and his eyes were damp. "He - there was - a - an - obituary - on your front door…" Charlie's teeth were chattering now, arms and legs shaking convulsively.

_Bastard. _"Okay. Head down. Come on…breathe…I'm okay…" Charlie gasped a watery chuckle and Don really did smile this time. "Well, I - will be. I'm more worried about you…right now. Grab a blanket…?"

"Oh…" Charlie sniffed and a blanket landed on Don's chest. It took him a minute.

"Not _me_ - you."

"Oh…"

He watched as Charlie dragged another blanket from the bed and wrapped it around himself, pulling it tight. "Good. Head down - I mean it - it'll help…you did great, buddy, I gotta say. Just perfect. You did real good." He coaxed his right arm into a couple of more thumps.

Charlie dashed at his eyes with one fist. "I was so scared," he confessed.

"Yeah…" Don let his working eye close for a minute. "…me too."

Charlie shook harder. "What if I…what if I…"

"Charlie - " Don tried out his fingers, but they definitely weren't back in action yet. "Buddy - you - the distraction was…perfect. Just what we needed. Don't…worry about the rest."

Charlie shuddered. "I can't…help it…" He swallowed. "I…I…was..so des..perate…and…scared…and…mad…I…I…I…"

Don sighed. _This would either be a good decision or a bad one_…"Bring me…my gun…?"

Charlie stared at him. "I…I don't know…if I can…"

"Buddy, I promise, you…weren't going to …shoot anybody. C'mon…show you…"

Charlie rose falteringly and staggered over to the door. He returned to his place next to Don carrying the handgun, and sat down heavily. Don moved to take the gun, swearing softly as he realized he would be able to grip it. He gestured to it vaguely.

"See that?"

Charlie frowned at the gun. "You - you mean…this?"

Don nodded, keeping the range of movement small. "Slide stop. Won't…fire…in that position."

Charlie's frown deepened. "I thought that was…the safety."

"Naw…" Don shut his eyes again, just for a minute. "There on…a lot of guns. But not…this one."

Charlie studied the gun. "Then…where's the safety?"

Don noticed his shaking was less severe and hid a smile. One sure way to distract Charlie - with a mental puzzle. "Isn't one." He took a hissing breath. "Automatic…firing pin…lock…"

"Oh." Charlie leaned back against the bed. "How…?"

"Pull…the trigger."

"So…if I _had_ pulled the trigger, though…you're saying…" Charlie's face went green.

"Head between - that's it - " Don tried rubbing his back and made out a little better this time. "Probably. But - don't ever point a gun _thinking_ it won't go off…"

Charlie gave a hysterical little laugh without lifting his head. "I can't believe - " he hiccupped, " - you're giving me a lecture on - gun safety when…when…"

Don half-snorted. "Yeah…all right. Just…you did great…okay? Think about…that."

"Yeah…" Charlie let his head drop back against the bed, then suddenly sat up straight, fumbling inside his jacket. He yanked out his cell phone.

Don watched him through one half-open eye. "…who…you callin'?"

"I - an ambulance, or…I don't know if your team will bring one and you…you need…"

_Oh. _Don let his eyes sink closed. _Good plan. _He listened vaguely for Charlie's voice talking into the phone and when he didn't hear it after a prolonged pause, opened his eyes again. "Whaz wrong?" he muttered. He blinked to see Charlie staring at his phone.

"Oh." Charlie squirmed a little. "I was thinking I should…um…call Dad…"

"Oh." Don echoed glumly, letting his head rock back.

Charlie glanced at his watch. "You - you, help should be here - any minute. Maybe we should wait - ?" He looked hopeful.

"Well…" Don let his eyes, which seemed to be having a lot of trouble staying open, close again. "You know…odds are…they'll just…treat me at the hospital…and release me."

"Really?" Charlie sounded deeply skeptical.

"Sure." Don smiled lazily. "I mean - broken ribs…that's just…pain management. Give you a list of…instructions…and send you home…"

"Really?" Charlie sounded more hopeful this time.

"Yeah…" Don tried to suppress a yawn, winced at the way it pulled at his damaged chest. "I mean, unless you've…punctured a lung…or something. And I think we'd…know that…by now." He gave a ragged chuckle.

"That's - that's not funny!" Don opened his eye to see Charlie sitting up straight, clutching his blanket to him. "How can you - that's not even a little funny!"

_Sheesh. The kid could be so sensitive sometimes. Well, he was all worked up… _"Okay, okay…" Don's eyes fluttered. "…sorry…"

Charlie gave him a peculiar look he couldn't quite figure out.

"No, I'm - " Charlie cleared his throat. "I - didn't mean to - " he rested his arms on his knees. "So, you really think you're - "

"Sure. Piece…of cake." Don twitched his right hand, wincing at the discomfort of the returning blood flow. "Except maybe…head wound. That's…always a crap shoot."

"So maybe it would be - um - more - "

"More - considerate…"

Charlie nodded. "More considerate - to - to wait and tell him - um - when you're all cleaned up and I take you home…?"

"Sure. I mean…spare him all that sitting around…in hospital waiting rooms…"

Charlie nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, considerate." He let his head drop back again, then suddenly leaned forward. "Don…?" he said faintly. "I - I think I'm going to be…"

Don let a hand thud on his knee. "Be my guest," he murmured. "…after today…I don't…expect to get my…security deposit back…on this place…" He heard Charlie give a scratchy laugh and opened his eye to study him, his brows rising fractionally.

Charlie ducked his head. "That was…um…maybe…a…a _little _funny…"

Don's lips twitched in a smile and Charlie let his head drop back between his knees, but he was smiling too.

There was a splintering sound from the front of the apartment and familiar calls of "FBI!"

Charlie rubbed the back of his neck without raising his head. "The cavalry," he muttered.

"Naw." Don thumped his leg once more. "Just the second string."

_TBC_


	21. Chapter 21

_A/N: We're on the wind down now. I imagined this as a little story, much shorter than Collateral Damage - now it looks as though it's going to turn out at least as long. Oh, well. _

_The second part of this contains a lot of scientific jargon which hopefully doesn't weigh it down too much, but it's Charlie's POV, so what can you do? Also, I only did the research for those facts and edited them to accommodate the story, adding Charlie's reflections. The science and their explanations are the work of much smarter people than myself._

Chapter 21

"FBI!" Megan stood with her gun extended, eyes scanning the hallway. She gestured to the living room with her head, and Colby moved toward the open arch. David touched her arm and jerked his thumb at a piece of paper taped askew to the back of the door. Megan nodded grimly, lips pressed tight together. _Here's hoping that's not prophetic_. She looked down the hall in the opposite direction of the living room, flinched at the blood stains disfiguring the wall and floor.

"We're in here!"

Megan's brows rose and she glanced at David. "Charlie?" she called. _Well, that would explain why Charlie wasn't waiting outside_…_or answering his phone_…she couldn't decide if she was relieved or furious. Both, maybe. _Better find out a little more about the situation, Reeves, and decide then…we could still have a hostage situation here_…she moved silently down the hall, trying not to disturb any evidence. David shadowed her.

"'Stz all clear, Megan - stand down…"

Moisture filled her eyes at the surprise of that voice. Until this moment, she hadn't realized just how unsure she'd been of ever hearing it again. "Don?" Still, she kept her gun up. _You just never knew_…

"…yeah…"

She glued herself to one side of the door, gun muzzle poking through the doorway. David echoed her, out of sight on the other side of the doorframe. She took in the room, trying to make sense of things. "Well…" she lowered the gun slowly. "David, check that room across the hall…just in case?" David nodded and disappeared across the hall.

Colby appeared at the entrance to the living room, shooting her a questioning look when he saw the position of her gun. "Nothing in the living room or kitchen…"

"Yeah. All the action seems to be right here."

Don gave a faint snort. "What…action…? You guys…missed…all the action…"

"Yeah - I see that." Megan holstered her gun and stepped carefully across the threshold. "Colby, call the EMTs waiting downstairs and give them the all clear - tell them we need them up here. David, we need a crime scene unit, too…"

Charlie lifted his head. "You brought an ambulance…? That's good…how'd you know…?"

"Well, there was your description of the blood all over the hallway - seemed like a good precaution - " she was having trouble trying to decide where to look first.

"I meant to call one…"

"Yeah…" Megan crouched next to him. "From downstairs, outside the building, along the curb, right…?" She tugged gently on the blanket clutched in his whitened fingers, trying to get a look.

Charlie blinked. "Oh." He frowned. "I - um - "

"Exigent…circumstances…" Don's words slurred, but Megan knew what he was trying to tell her - to leave this to him.

"I see." She studied his battered face and smiled slightly, running a light finger over his swollen cheekbone. "You - uh - didn't happen to get the number of the cement truck that spit you out, did you?"

Don tried to grin, groaned at the resulting pang. "Number and…driver…"

Colby shoved his phone back on his belt and bent over Soames, who was beginning to stir. "They're on their way up. I wouldn't move if I was you, pal - somebody like me might take it as an excuse to clock you…"

"Are you hurt, Charlie?"

Charlie seemed to have a death grip on his blanket. He frowned at her again, then shook his head.

Don tried to lift an arm to get her attention, but it only budged an inch or so. "…shocky…" he whispered.

She smiled slightly. "You talking about you or him? I think we'll have the EMTs look you both over."

There was the sound of voices and banging and footsteps and David started back down the hall. "I'll let them in."

"They better have a look at this guy, too." Colby pressed back to his feet, admiring the rising bump on the back of Soames' shaved skull. "What did you hit him with, anyway?"

"…my…head…" Don muttered.

Megan was trying to give him a surreptitious examination and it was making her a little ill, but her smile broadened at that. "Wow. Did you have to use something so hard? He could really be hurt."

"Ha…ha," Don grumbled.

Charlie opened his eyes at her and frowned, then closed them again.

"Just try and watch where you're stepping…" David's voice carried down the hall. "We're trying to preserve the evidence until…" he was interrupted by a sharp knocking. "…that must be them. Go right in there…"

An EMT carrying a heavy gear box stopped dead in the doorway. "Wow. Looks like we're gonna need a couple of gurneys - " he glanced over his shoulder to his partner. "You wanna take the guy in cuffs, and I'll check these two out? What have we got?"

Megan rose to meet him. "I don't know much, yet. I'm told this one is shocky - " she brushed Charlie's shoulder, " - and I'm guessing this one - " she let her eyes skim over the blood-clotted baseball bat lying on the floor by the closet, "was hit with - that. Don, did he use the bat?"

Don squirmed. "…sometimes…"

"Can you tell the EMT what else?"

Don half-opened one eye and looked at Charlie.

The EMT misinterpreted the look and patted Charlie on the shoulder. "Can you hold on while we look this guy over?"

"I - I'm not hurt," Charlie repeated stubbornly. "I already said that. How's - how's Don?"

"Well, we're gonna find out." The EMT reached for a small flashlight, gently running his thumb over Don's swollen eyelid. "Nice eye. How'd that happen?"

"Dunno…" Despite the light touch, Don shifted away from him, then blinked when the thin light shone in his other eye. "Him, maybe…or…when I hit the floor…"

"Uh-huh. I'm going to cover it until the doc can have a look." His fingers moved to a growing swelling near the hairline, then slid carefully between the blood-stained pillow slip and Don's head. "What's back here?" Don's lips parted, but no sound came out. His good eye widened, then rolled. "Whoa - " The EMT groped for his kit and snatched up a blood pressure cuff. "Try and stay with me - ?"

"What did you do?" Charlie glared at him. "Don - " Charlie leaned forward for a better look. "You're not supposed to hurt him!"

"Yeah - okay - " The EMT gently pushed Charlie back against the bed. "You just relax for a minute. Hey, Mario? How you doing over there?"

"Nothing life threatening here that I can see - vitals seem good. Two nice lumps, though - forehead and back. Probably want a CAT scan."

"This guy too. Bet there's a heck of a story here." He poked at a pair of handcuffs lying nearby and Megan intercepted his hand.

"Don't touch anything you don't have to, please? The Crime Scene Unit will work in here as soon as you're done."

"Right." The EMT turned Don's wrist this way and that, searching for an uninjured spot to take a pulse, then settled on his neck instead. "Mario, if you're not needed there, can you come over here and give this guy a look? I want to call in this one's vitals and see about getting him on a line - maybe both Ringer's and blood - but somebody should have a look at the other one."

"Sure." Mario gathered his gear, nodding to Colby, still kneeling next to Soames. "Can you keep an eye on him for any changes?"

Colby grinned wolfishly. "My pleasure."

"Down, boy - " Megan called, gripping Don's shoulder when he jumped at the squeeze of the blood pressure cuff. "We do this one by the book - I don't want to give him any loophole to slip through. In fact, I think I'm going to call Gretski to get down here and oversee the crime scene guys - don't want anybody to be able to suggest that we messed with evidence."

Colby scoffed. "You think there's something uncertain about this evidence? You stay down - " He pushed Soames' face unceremoniously back into the floorboards and smiled toothily at Megan. "Just keeping him restrained. Hands are cuffed in front - can't be too careful."

"I couldn't get them around his back," Charlie piped up, opening his eyes again as Mario, the EMT, gripped his chin. "Don was - in the way. So I - um - over his head was - "

"YOU cuffed him - ?" Megan glanced at Don's hands, the fingers not hidden in the stained pillow case bloodless, wrist purple and swollen and creased with a dark ligature mark. Her eyebrows went up. _Well, Don sure didn't do it. The EMT's right – there's a heck of a story here._

"Oh, yeah…" Mario murmured, turning Charlie's head this way and that. "Look at those eyes - all pupil - like black holes." He lifted his flashlight. "Reactive, though. Let's see how your blood pressure is doing. How's your guy?"

"Blood pressure's way down. Once I get a line established I want to move him out."

"Let's take this guy in the same ambulance - I'll phone for another one for the other guy."

"Great." Megan gave Don's shoulder a rub, then reached for her phone. "I'll call Gretski and we'll follow you to the hospital. David - " she raised her voice. "Gretski's team is gonna take over for you."

"Oh, yeah?" David appeared in the doorway. "What are we going to be doing?"

"Driving to the hospital." Megan punched in a telephone number.

Colby and David exchanged glances.

"Hey - um - " Colby stood up abruptly, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "I'll - uh - ride along with Soames here - get his statement. You guys go ahead without me."

David stared at him. "You know, I should ride along with the Eppes and do the same - somebody should get their story while - um - it's fresh."

Mario tucked away the talkie he'd used to request a couple of folding gurneys from the ambulance driver, glancing from one patient to the other. "Sorry, guys, but I'm not sure there's room for you in the one ambulance and - well - frankly, I don't think anybody's going to be up to saying much for a little while. Might have better luck if you meet us there."

Megan finished her phone call and stood, not even trying to hide a smirk at the wild look David and Colby shared. "Don't worry, boys…I'll take the corners reeeeal slow."

"I've got an even better idea," David held out a hand for the keys. "_I'll_ drive."

000

"Up you go."

Charlie accepted a hand from the EMT and let him help him into the ambulance. Funny - his legs seemed to be - they actually didn't seem to be there at all. There was a reason for it, probably, a good scientific one…biology, most likely. Not his specialty.

The EMT - Charlie tried to get a glimpse of his nametag, but everything was blurry - guided him to some kind of a built-in bench and helped him get comfortable, arranging a new blanket of silvery thinsulate around him. The blanket in Don's room had been left behind as a source of possible evidence.

"There." The EMT gave his knee a pat. "That's a good blanket, huh? Not as cozy, maybe, but warm."

Charlie nodded, wondering why he was talking to him as if he was four. Come to think of it, about everybody was.

_The human body sitting at rest consumes 4.7 kilocalories per hour per square foot of body surface area and transfers this energy into heat._ He hunkered deep into the blanket and it crinkled softly about him. The cold seemed to be coming from inside, though, not outside. Could a blanket, even a technologically advanced one, warm you inside?

_The clo unit is defined as the amount of clothing required by a resting subject to be comfortable at a room temperature of 70°F (21°C). Clo-value is analogous to R-value. For example, 1 R-value 1.137 clo-value. _

He frowned, looking around him for the first time. It was a pleasant day - probably about 70°F. Was it really the same day? It felt like he'd been inside Don's for hours. _Larry would be able to interject something here about the time/space continuum, or time occurring on alternate, simultaneous planes…_

He noticed something else. "The LAPD is here."

"Yeah." The EMT climbed in after him, settling on a similar bench on the opposite side. "They got here while we were waiting for the all-clear. Why?"

Charlie shook his head. _Nothing. Just - was everybody always so - slow? Don always seemed to take off at a dead run. Did it still take so long for help to arrive? _He sighed. _Of course, this was LA. Traffic. And of course, he really wasn't that sure how long it had taken…minutes, probably. Too many minutes, though. Larry would say that time was relative. Today he would be tempted to argue._

The EMT lifted his hand in a signal and the door slammed shut with a clang that made Charlie jump, followed by a swift banging sound; then the ambulance careened away from the curb. Charlie set his feet and gripped the bench with one hand to keep from sliding down its length.

"How's Don?" Had he already asked that? He thought maybe he had.

"'Mfine, Charlie."

Charlie nearly jumped a second time, he'd been so certain Don was out of it. He leaned his elbows on his knees and bent forward to get a better look at the gurney that took up most of the ambulance's narrow floor. He could just make out a sliver of dark brown between the lashes of the eye not covered by white gauze.

"I was actually looking for a professional opinion," he explained mildly.

"Yeah…" the lashes drooped. "Who's the funny guy…now?"

"I like to think my jokes are in better taste."

"Yeah…?" Don flinched as they hit a rut in the road. "Don't…kid yourself."

Charlie smiled a little. With the wound on the back of his head hidden from sight and a blanket covering most of the rest of the mess, Don actually did look less alarming. He watched the lashes stretch a little higher, then squint.

"How…you…holding up…?"

"I'm - " He had no idea, actually. "I'm - you know - I'm okay." Even with only one eye to read, he could tell Don didn't really believe him, but either he didn't have the strength to argue or didn't see the point. _Good. _He didn't feel like arguing. He didn't have any real answers to offer anybody anyway. _Hm_. Him - with no answers. That was new. _See, Don? Now that's funny_. He'd have to remember to tell him. He rubbed his palms over his temples. His head hurt. Was it possible to have a post-adrenaline headache?

_Adrenaline (i.e. epinephrine) is secreted by the adrenal medulla. When released into the bloodstream, adrenaline binds to multiple receptors and has numerous effects throughout the body. It increases heart rate and stroke volume, dilates the pupils, and constricts arterioles in the skin and gut while dilating arterioles in leg muscles…_

That's right. That explained the missing legs.

…_It elevates the blood sugar level by increasing depolymerization of glycogen to glucose in the liver, and at the same time begins the breakdown of lipids in adipocytes. Epinephrine (adrenaline) has a suppressive effect on the immune system…_

Hope you don't need your immune system, Donnie. _Don_. Wow. He hadn't called him that since…well. A long time. Probably since his voice had changed and he'd begun to consider himself a grown up.

He watched the EMT adjust the plastic bags dangling from thin metal arms around the gurney. In the glare of the overhead light they looked decorative - almost jewel-like - translucent yellow and dark, opaque burgundy.

"I - don't think I…I'm Charlie."

"I know." The EMT gestured to his clipboard. "Charles E. Eppes. I'm Jerry."

Oh. He didn't remember telling…had he? Maybe. Or maybe Megan had.

"…and," Jerry turned a page. "One Don A. Eppes. You guys related?"

"Brothers." The word caught in his throat and he blinked rapidly to keep from embarrassing himself.

_We are 50 percent genetically related to our sisters and brothers. Siblings inherit 23 chromosomes from each parent. Because of DNA swapping, their chromosomes have a different combination of genes, yet on average, half of the genes are still the same. _

He had given a lecture on this once…the statistical aspects of DNA…

_Imagine your parents' genes as coins. The sides of a coin, heads and tails, represent the two copies of each of their genes. The chances of inheriting a head or a tail is just like flipping a coin, totally random. _

Random. Like today…he swallowed.

_Since we have 25,000 genes in our DNA, whether we inherit the head or tail of each gene is like flipping a coin 25,000 times. If we do that, we are most likely to get ½ heads and ½ tails. _

Flipping a coin. Heads, you win, tails, you lose. Just that simple. He didn't really believe in luck, but he did believe in probability…

…_so if you are inheriting ½ heads and ½ tails from your parents, the same is true for your sibling. In other words, the two of you are about 50 percent genetically related. You both may not have exactly 12,500 of each - you may have 12,600 heads and 12,400 tails and your sibling has 12,550 tails and 12,450 heads - but you are pretty close to 50 percent... _

Pretty close. Pretty close. _It had been _pretty close. _They_ _were_ pretty close. He let his hand curl around the bar on the side of the gurney.

…_approximately 50 percent alike and 50 percent different. Out of all those probable combinations, each one is 100 percent unique_…his hand tightened…_100 percent irreplaceable_.

"How - " He tried to smile at Jerry. The smile felt ragged and uncertain, even to him. "You said - um - you think - ?" It didn't hurt to ask again.

Jerry looked up from the vitals he was monitoring, and _his_ smile did look real. "Well, I'm not a doc, of course, and I'd say you both could use a real examination, but…" he shrugged. "Yeah. He's going to need some serious patching, but the smart money's on him."

_Step up and place your bets, folks. Heads, you win. Tails, you lose. One second to choose, then…_

"Yeah…don't believe…_me_…"

The husky whisper drew Charlie's attention back to the gurney. _Speaking of ragged_. Even the sliver of brown had vanished under the lid now, but Don sounded still with them, groggy and indignant.

Charlie let go of the gurney and stretched his hand over the upper part of Don's chest instead, where he didn't recall there being much damage. The reassuring pressure of a heartbeat nudged his palm. "I don't think you're in a state to be making an unbiased assessment," he suggested softly.

Don huffed a faint breath. "Right…back at ya."

Charlie shifted his shoulders in the crinkly blanket. "Okay," he nodded obediently. _Might as well humor him. _"I think I'm - going to be - okay. How do you think you are?"

He could see Don's eye shift under the lid, could almost sense him taking stock. "Choice between this and…dead?" His lips quirked. "I'll…take it."

Charlie sank back against the ambulance wall, the swaying motion strangely lulling him, keeping counterpoint to the heartbeat under his hand - fast and erratic, but irrefutably there.

_Heads. Tails. Toss a coin and take what you get. Win. Lose. Life. Death. _

_The basics. _

Sometimes, maybe, he made things a little too complicated.

"Yeah," he breathed. "Yeah. Me too."

_TBC_


	22. Chapter 22

_A/N: Would I forget Alan? Not in a million years. There are still a few things left to resolve - we're on the wind down, but it will take a bit._

_Simanis, if you look at the end of Chapter 19, Don does black out. Charlie rouses him at the top of Chapter 20, and then he experiences a number of small black outs throughout._

Chapter 22

The doors flew open with another clang and Charlie blinked this time, astonished to discover he'd been half-asleep. There were yelling voices and many hands - a bewildering cacophony after the quiet cocoon of the ambulance, and he couldn't seem to get a grip on his bearings. Then he saw hands reach for Don's gurney and lift it down to the pavement and he felt himself come to life.

"Wait!"

The gurney grew mysteriously taller, a crowd of multi-colored, scrub-clad bodies clinging to the sides, saying things he couldn't quite follow. Two people took his arms too, one on either side, and helped him out of the ambulance, but his eyes were on the gurney, hurrying away from him. He tried to twist in their grasp and follow after it, but they kept hold of him, guiding him, asking him something that he didn't quite catch. He recognized Jerry the EMT's voice in the confusion, hurrying along with them.

He tried to ask Jerry where they were taking Don, but he had disappeared, leaving him with the two strangers. They steered him into a small, curtained cubicle and helped him up onto the examining table in the middle. One of them was skimming a clipboard - she looked up from it and smiled.

"Why don't you just lie back and rest for a minute, Mr. Eppes? A doctor will be with you shortly."

Charlie opened his mouth to protest, but one was easing him back on the table, while the first one elevated his feet. He discovered to his surprise that he felt weak and drained. Still, as they tried to leave, he managed to grab one's hand. "My brother?" he asked, in response to her questioning look.

She paused. "Was he the one brought in with you?"

He nodded. "Where - ?"

She adjusted the thinsulate blanket around him. "He's probably in one of the other cubicles. I'll see if I can find anything out for you."

He nodded again, grateful, and let his eyes close. He should have asked which hospital this was, too. Because eventually he really did need to call -

_"Charlie?"_

Charlie's eyes flew open at the sound of curtain rings singing against metal. "Dad?" _Wow. Vivid dream_.

"Charlie - !"

Charlie rolled onto his side and pushed himself up onto one elbow, blinking to clear his vision. There were hands again, helping him sit all the way up, but this time the touch was familiar. "Dad - " he let his legs swing over the side of the table, struggling to merge the familiar with the unfamiliar. "What - who called you?"

"Megan." The tone was sharp, and Charlie found himself envying Don, safely tucked away in some other cubicle at the moment, out of reach. "Evidently she's under the impression that I'm still a _part_ of this family. Unlike some others I could name." He was pulling at the thinsulate, trying to get a better look underneath. "What's this for? Where are you hurt? Are you all right?"

"Yeah - um - we - we were going to - um call - " He managed to stop himself from blurting that it had been Don's idea to wait. Wouldn't really help at this point anyway.

"What's this? Are you bleeding?"

The frantic note in his voice made Charlie wince, and he stared down at the bloody handprints smeared on his t-shirt in some surprise. _Wow. _He had no memory…he must have wiped his hands…"It's - it's not mine," he assured hastily. "It's must be D- " he stopped himself quickly, regrouping. _THAT _wouldn't help…" - not - mine," he repeated feebly.

Alan's hands patted at his shoulders, his arms, eyes devouring his face. After a minute, his hands stilled on Charlie's upper arms, gave him a little shake. "What on earth happened? I get a call out of the blue from Megan, telling me that _both_ of my sons are on their way to the hospital, but that I shouldn't worry - naturally, because what could there possibly be in that statement to make me worry…?!?" His voice rose and he dropped onto the small rolling stool next to the table, his hands sliding down to rest on Charlie's knees. He lowered his head for a moment, and when he lifted it again, his eyes were suspiciously bright. "Are you _sure_ you're all right?"

"I'm - " Charlie stopped abruptly, shocked by a sudden tightening of his throat. Oh, no, no, no…he wasn't going to…? He clenched his jaw and nodded wordlessly.

Alan's face shifted into a frown. "Tell me what happened. Where's your brother?"

"Um - " Charlie fought to steady his voice. "An - another cubicle. They said they'd tell me - " The events of the last hour were suddenly welling up inside him, rising like a wave and crashing over him. "D - Dad - "

Alan tightened his grip on his knees, searching his face. "Tell me. Were you at a crime scene? Charlie, I know you're a grown man and it's none of my business, but - "

"Dad. No." Somehow he found his voice. "I mean - I didn't think so anyway - "

"Alan."

Charlie looked up in surprise. Alan rose and turned to the cubicle entrance, a hand resting on Charlie's shoulder.

"Megan. David."

Megan smiled. "Sorry I'm so late - I hoped to meet you at the entrance to the emergency room, but David drives like an old man." She gave him a playful glare.

David folded his arms. "We were not in hot pursuit and it is every law enforcement officer's duty to follow the traffic laws whenever possible."

"A little siren wouldn't have killed you." She moved forward and took Alan's hand. "I'm sorry I was so cryptic on the phone - I just don't have a lot of information myself yet. Now that you've seen Charlie's all right, David really needs to take his statement, if you wouldn't mind waiting outside…?"

Alan looked back at Charlie, forehead creased. "I'd like to - is there any reason I can't be here for that?"

David raised his brows. "That's up to Charlie."

Charlie looked from one to the other. Telling this story twice suddenly seemed like more than he was up for and there was something solid and reassuring about his father's familiar presence. "Stay," he said simply.

Alan nodded, leaning against the examining table next to him.

Megan looked from one to the other and smiled again, but the smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "All right. While you guys do that, I'm going to find Don and see if he's up to talking to me. Colby's covering Soames."

David snorted. "With his fists?"

Megan's smile grew prim. "I'm sure Granger will only apply those interrogation methods he deems most appropriate."

David lips twitched. "That's what I said."

Megan touched his arm and moved toward the curtained exit.

"Megan - " She paused with a hand on the privacy curtain. "Let - let Donnie know that I'll be there just as soon - "

Megan bobbed a nod. "Of course." She pulled the curtain closed behind her.

David hooked the rolling stool with one foot and seated himself, flipping open a pad and finding a clean page. "So. Charlie. " He clicked his pen. "From the top?"

"Yeah." Charlie looked from David to Alan, suddenly uncomfortable. "Well, you know I went to Don's - "

Alan looked at him sharply. "His apartment - ?" Charlie nodded. "What was Don doing at his apartment in the middle of the day?"

"He was trying to catch some sleep. I mean, that's what Megan - "

Alan shook his head. "He usually comes to our place when he needs to crash - it's closer - "

"Mr. Eppes - " David softened his interruption with a smile. "Don went home to pick up some things he thought might be useful to the case. He phoned from there to say he was going to try and catch a little sleep - we've been putting in some pretty rough hours on this case." He turned to Charlie. "So. Charlie. You went to Don's - ?"

Charlie nodded. "Yeah. I knocked, but there wasn't any answer. I knew you said he might be asleep, so I let myself in…" Images rose up before him and he swallowed and closed his eyes.

"Take your time, Charlie." David's voice was soothing, but he could feel his father shift uncomfortably.

"I - something didn't feel - " he shook his head. "It's hard to explain. But I smelled cigarette smoke, and - well - I thought I'd - check Don's room, but - the hall - " he broke off, with a sideways glance at his father. "I - I guess I already told you about that, on the phone."

"You told Megan," David pointed out patiently. "And I need everything for your official statement." He smiled his kind smile again. "Sometimes you think of things you don't even know you remember when you tell it the second time around."

Charlie sighed resignedly. "Okay. There was - blood - everywhere, it seemed." He felt his father jerk next to him. "So, I - I left and went down the hall a little ways and called Megan - told her I needed help."

David smiled encouragingly. "That was good thinking."

"Where was Don?" Alan blurted.

David's smile tightened. "Mr. Eppes - "

"He - I wasn't sure. At least - Megan told me to wait outside, that help would be there in twenty minutes. But I hadn't - I just wanted to make sure Don was…" He couldn't quite bring himself to say the word 'alive'. He rubbed his hands over his face.

"Go on, Charlie. Take your time."

Charlie took a deep breath. "So - um - I - went back - "

"Charlie!" The word exploded from Alan and Charlie turned to him defiantly.

"I had to know! You can't - you couldn't really expect me to just walk away, not - "

"Mr. Eppes." David was on his feet now. "Alan."

He smiled again and Charlie was impressed with how polite and neutral he seemed, when he couldn't possibly really feel anything of the kind. Almost - detached…he winced. _Ouch_. He'd think about that one later.

"Alan. I know that this is very hard to hear - but if you continue to interrupt, I'll have no choice but to ask you to wait outside until Charlie is finished."

Alan ran his hands over his hair, pacing in a small circle. After a minute, he took a deep breath. "Don _is_ alive." He looked directly at David.

"Yes," Charlie interrupted. "I rode in with him."

Alan nodded, blowing out a breath. "And Charlie is…" He stopped pacing and settled himself on the table next to Charlie. "All right, I'll - I'll try to contain myself. I certainly won't be able to sit out there and just wait for you now."

"Then you know how I felt," Charlie mumbled, half under his breath.

David ducked his head hastily and became very busy with his notebook. "Go on, Charlie," he said, in a curiously muffled voice.

Charlie nodded. "I went back. I was quiet - I just wanted to know - and I heard Don's voice. Don and somebody else's…a stranger's…" He wrinkled his forehead. "What did you say his name was…?"

"Soames." David looked up from his notebook and gave him an approving nod. "Mickey Soames. Seems Don and his partner, Cooper, brought him in on Fugitive Recovery detail years ago."

"Fugitive Recovery," Alan muttered bitterly, then raised his hands at David's questioning glance. "Just thinking aloud."

David nodded to Charlie to continue.

Charlie cleared his throat. "There was - there had been - this - sawed off shotgun - in the hall. Earlier. Did I mention that?" David shook his head. "There was. When I went back, it was gone…and I could hear…" He closed his eyes again. Maybe he couldn't do this after all. Don had told him once that he was always okay until it was all over…he thought maybe he could suddenly understand what he was talking about.

"What could you hear, Charlie?" David's voice was steady, mellow.

"I could hear - what he was doing to Don." He gripped the sides of the examining table and studied the tops of his sneakers. "And…and then I heard…" He couldn't even look at his father, but he could sense him there, standing very still.

"Go ahead, Charlie."

Charlie lifted his head. "You know that sound a shotgun makes…not like a handgun…loud. That sound when it's getting ready to fire…?"

"Sure. That's the ammo dropping into the chamber."

"Yeah. I heard that." He could feel his father's hand on his shoulder, squeezing tight, wasn't quite sure which one of them it was for. _Both, maybe. _"So I figured - um - that he was going to - you know - "

"I need you to put it in words for me, Charlie. I'm not allowed to assume." David's tone was very gentle, as though he were coaxing a wounded animal.

Charlie sucked in a breath. "I figured - he was going to shoot Don. And that I didn't have twenty minutes to wait. Fifteen, then, I think." There, he had said it. It made something inside him shake, but he had said it.

"So…what did you do then?"

"I, uh - " Charlie did shoot a glance at Alan this time. "I figured I needed to…buy time. For you guys to get there. So, I…" _Okay, here it goes_. "Don's…gun was on the hall table - " He felt his father rise abruptly and move away and he lifted his head to track his movements.

"And?"

Charlie dragged his eyes away from his father's back. "I - uh - I figured - I could - point it. Not - not fire it, just - slow things down."

"Okay. So what did you do?"

"I picked it up and I - leveled it, I guess." He paused. "That's a lot harder than it looks, you know? How do you manage to keep it steady?"

"Practice." David smiled at him. "What then?"

Charlie closed his eyes, trying to see the scene again. "I think I - kicked in the bedroom door. No, I know I did, because I remember thinking that I couldn't remember the last time I'd kicked something…"

Not since he was a kid, he was sure, but there was something satisfying about it too - forceful. It was also very, very loud _- no going back now, Charlie. Remember, you're just buying some time. _He took a step inside the room, his extended arms feeling stiff and peculiar in front of him, and froze. He thought about yelling - didn't the FBI guys always yell? But his lungs seemed to press in on themselves, strangling sound_. Ohgod, ohgod, ohgod…_

The room reeked of smoke and sweat and blood, overwhelming his senses. He caught sight of Don, torn between relief at seeing him alive and horror at what seemed to be a hundred wounds and marks caked with blood, and he instantly moved to throw the gun aside and run to him, but something in Don's face stopped him and he jerked the gun upward again, struggling to keep it steady. It shook like a leaf in a breeze, but he managed to keep it pointing forward, and he figured that would be good enough. _Point, Charlie - just point. You don't have to…wow - how big IS that guy…? _He let his eyes travel upward to a large man's scarred face, his shirt bulging with muscles, his head shaved bald. _Like David. _He caught sight of the man's eyes and stamped down that thought. _NOT like David - this guy was NOTHING like David. He was…_he swallowed. He suddenly felt completely out of his depth. He clung to the gun like a talisman, wishing he could think of something to say.

"Baby brother, right?"

The low, gravelly voice was the same one he'd heard from the hall, weirdly familiar, and Charlie blinked_. How could he know…? _Then he remembered the paper taped to Don's door, and all the familiar pictures on the crime board, and his jaw stiffened_. Of course he knew. He knew pretty much everything. _Anger coursed through his veins and he tightened his clumsy grip on the gun. _Point. Point. Just point._

"Come to say good-bye?"

He saw the shotgun rise, seemingly out of nowhere, watched it swing in Don's direction, fought the urge to close his eyes and block it out.

_Don't look, don't look, don't look…_he wanted to look at Don, seek strength and reassurance, but knew the sight of his battered brother, gun thrust against his head, would shatter his teetering his resolve. He kept his eyes determinedly away, trying to see only the gun in his grip and the mountain of a man before him. The man said something else, but he was caught in the chatter of his own thoughts and missed it. He shook himself mentally._ Steady, Charlie. This isn't forever. You don't have to hold on forever. Help is on the way. Just - just - point. _

"Your timing's not bad."

Charlie wished he would shut up; the talking was distracting, the edge in the low voice turning his insides to jelly.

"You're just in time to watch."

Charlie felt his hands tighten convulsively on the weapon, watched the gun tip dance in front of him, was startled by the rush of anger and revulsion that flooded him. For a terrible moment, the trigger slid against his finger_. Maybe firing this thing wouldn't be so hard after all._

Charlie's eyes flew open.

"You're doing great Charlie."

Charlie glanced around, but this was definitely the emergency room cubicle, not Don's bedroom. He looked for his father and realized in some surprise that he was standing next to him again, one hand lightly massaging the back of his neck. Charlie leaned into the hand, feeling his rigid muscles loosen under the well-known touch.

"What happened next?"

"I didn't fire." He wasn't quite sure why he felt it was so important to explain that. "My - my cell phone rang and I - looked down at it where it was, in my pocket - " He frowned. "That - that probably wasn't the right thing to do, huh?"

David patted his knee. "Sorry. That was probably us calling."

"No, I - I think it was good - I heard Don yell for me to get down, and I dropped. I couldn't see what happened next, but I heard the shotgun go off - God, it was so loud - like an explosion. And the floor shook, and when I looked up…" He closed his eyes again, felt his father slide onto the examining table, close to him, one arm around his shoulders. "The guy - Soames - was still, and so was Don - just - still - and there was blood. And I thought - " He clamped his eyes tighter shut, wishing it would make the images go away. "But - nobody was hit. I lost track of Don's gun, but it didn't fire. Don told me later that it couldn't. So, I - I didn't fire it. I didn't fire…" He pressed his hands over his eyes, trying to push away the pictures of blood and smoke and terror, and the echo of Soames' coarse, taunting voice.

"I never fired it," he whispered again, the shock and shame suddenly slamming into him, hard and unyielding as a brick wall. "But, God, oh God - I - really wanted to."

_TBC_


	23. Chapter 23

_A/N: Well, I'd really hoped to post the next bit with this as well, but I'm already later than I like to be, so hopefully that will be up in the next couple of days. Whose bright idea was it to schedule the holidays and finals right next to each other anyway?_

_I'm glad you enjoyed David - I have a soft spot for him myself and he's been seen so little so far this season. Anyway, semester break! Woo hoo!_

Chapter 23

"Hey. Tall, dark, and battered." Megan waited until she saw Don's one uncovered eye slide open and blink at her. The faint movement around his mouth might have been intended as a smile.

"Hey." It was almost a whisper, and she had to move a little closer to hear. "You still…hangin' around?"

She lifted her pad high so he could see it. "You know how it is. An agent's work is never done." She dragged over a chair, peering under the table at a plastic tub stashed there. "Those your clothes? Cause I'm gonna want them."

"Got me." The eye fluttered and closed. "How's…Charlie?"

"Asking about you. Your Dad's with him."

The lid lifted again, tried to focus on her. "Dad's here?"

"Mm hm."

He breathed something on a sigh, too quietly for her to make it out.

"What do they have to say about you?"

"…going to x-ray. See my ribs. _I_…know I have broken ribs, but I guess _they _need…class evidence."

"Hey. Nobody likes a wise guy." She pulled a small camera out of her purse and held it up in what she gauged to be his line of vision. "I'm - um - gonna need to take pictures, too. I could get one of the crime scene photographers down here if you like, but I thought you might prefer…"

The single eye blinked at the camera, then closed. "Knock…yourself out…"

"All right," Megan forced a smile. "Say cheese…" She focused on the cheekbone where an angry red swelling was already deepening to purple and clicked, trying to maintain a serene expression. "I should get your eye, too, but I don't want to mess with any bandages."

Don didn't bother to open his good eye. "Ophthalmologist…after x-rays, I think…"

"Maybe I'll tag along there, then. I have to - um - ?" She gingerly folded back the thin blanket and pulled delicately on the strings that held his hospital gown closed. Don shivered and she paused. "You cold?" He shrugged. "I was actually looking for a 'yes' or a 'no'."

The eye blinked open, hazed with mild irritation. "…little."

"I'll be quick…" She parted the hospital gown, pulling the two halves to the sides out of the way and stepping back to get a clear shot. Her hands tightened around the camera, her gorge rising to fill her mouth with a bitter tang. She must have waited too long, because Don tried to turn his head to look at her.

"…done?"

"Hm? Almost…" She snapped hastily, blinking hard to clear her vision, shooting from a number of angles, then on zoom. "You know, you have an actual boot sole pattern on one side." She tried to keep her voice conversational. "Very clear. Matchable."

"Good…evidence."

"Yeah." Her voice came out sounding a little hoarse. "I'm gonna get the ligature marks now. Let me know if I hurt." She carefully closed the hospital gown and arranged it for full coverage, meticulously re-tying the bow and pulling the blanket back up over his chest. "You have any marks on your back, do you think?"

Don gave a rusty chuckle. "Oh, yeah."

"I'll wait for medical personnel to turn you over, then. Same goes for the back of your head, I guess, though I definitely need a shot of that one." She lifted his right hand on top of the blanket, arranged it for optimum light. She shot one side, then turned it carefully to get the other. "Almost done," she encouraged cheerily. Reaching for the left one, she wondered if she sounded as fake and stiff as she felt. This hand was loosely wrapped in a towel, and she bit her lip when she pushed the cloth carefully aside to reveal the wrist.

Probably she had stared at it for too long again, because Don said, without bothering to look at her this time, "…that it?"

"Sorry - " she snapped a couple of photos, hastily tucking the towel back over the ugly seepage. "Photography isn't my specialty."

"Wasn't…planning on ordering…5x7s…anyway…"

Megan forced a chuckle, picking up the right hand to return it to its spot by his side. "Your fingers are freezing."

"…circulation."

"Uh-huh." She took the hand between her own two, gently massaging first one finger, then the next. "How's that - does that hurt?"

"…nice." His face relaxed for a minute, then the brows pinched together in a frown. "You…get my…gun?"

"Your gun? At the crime scene?"

"Yeah…wasn't fired…not…really part…"

"I didn't see it. The crime scene mice will process it and return it to you."

Don sighed, and she could tell that wasn't the right answer. "It wasn't…any reason why…?"

"Why what? We can't suppress it? You know the answer to that."

"Yeah, yeah…I know…I just…"

"Come on. It's not like you don't have a permit. If it's not real evidence, I'll bet they run your prints and release it right away."

The hand in hers jerked, but didn't pull away. "Not mine. Charlie's."

Megan wrinkled her nose. "Charlie's…?"

"Prints." The sigh was heavier this time. On…my gun."

Megan glanced down at the puffed and torn flesh ringing the wrist of the hand she held, a livid dark line bisecting it. Of course - Don wouldn't have been able to handle a gun any more than he would have been able to cuff anyone. Something caught in her throat and she had to clear it away before she could say, "I told Charlie to go downstairs and wait outside."

Don seemed lulled half to sleep by the hypnotic massaging, but he frowned at that, laboriously re-opening his eye. "I know." He tried to read her expression and the frown deepened. "What's…this?"

"I - uh - " she shook her head, her vision suddenly unaccountably blurred. "I just can't believe how badly I messed this one up." She looked away, eyes focused on the fingers wrapped in hers.

"_You_ did." Don shifted painfully. "How's…that?"

"Don, this guy followed an almost picture perfect MO, right to the end - murdered people in their own homes with their own possessions. And yet we acted like it was somehow smart of us to get you as far as your car and send you home alone every night. And guess what? Big surprise - in your own home, with your own possession…"

"Yeah. Well. Don't think you're the only one who should have…caught that. Too close to this one…maybe." He sighed, then winced.

"I should have made the connection. It does say behaviorist on my resume, remember?"

"Behaviorist…I remember." He watched her carefully. "Don't remember anything about…omniscient."

"Any NAT could have figured it out," Megan objected fiercely. "And I had a bad feeling about this one all along - something I couldn't shake - I just couldn't quite get my brain around it. I guess I've got it now - _more_ than a little too late."

Don squinted at her suspiciously. "You're not…crying…?"

"Of course I'm not crying!" Megan sniffed inaccurately.

"Good." He watched her warily. "Never…know what to do…"

Megan rose and took a turn about the cubicle, dabbing at her eyes with her sleeve. "Then I - I - couldn't even make Charlie listen to what I told him to do - "

Don chuckled, swore with soft ferocity at the resultant pain. "You…ever figure out a way to…make Charlie do…anything but what he wants…? Come tell me…how."

"He could have been _killed_, Don."

Don sobered immediately. "I know."

Something in his tone pulled her up short. "It's not your fault."

He gave her a humorless smile. "Yeah."

"What did he think he was _doing_?"

Don's brows quirked. "Saving…my life?"

Megan stopped pacing and looked at him. Her voice was much quieter when she asked, "And - did he?"

Don's smile twisted, half rueful, half proud. "Sure…looked that way…to me."

Megan returned to the chair and sank into it. "So, you're saying if Charlie had followed my directions and _hadn't_ gone back - "

"Yup." Don's fingers flickered, trying out their range of movement. "Sometimes there's just…no good answer…huh?"

She shook her head slowly.

His eye dropped wearily shut again. "Drives me crazy…that he was in danger because of…me…"

Megan smiled slightly. "Yeah, well, bad news - you're not the only one with the right to look after the people you love."

"I know." He tried to make a fist, grimaced at the clumsy movement. "Just - scared me, y'know? Keep trying to think of a way…to make sure…"

"Hm." Megan chuckled. "Tell you what - I'll make a deal with you. I'll give up on the idea of being omniscient if you'll forget about trying to be omnipotent."

Don sipped in a slow breath. "Tough…bargain…"

Megan laughed. "It's the only kind I bother with. I should be taking your statement."

"Yeah…Charlie's…?"

"David's doing it. Your Dad stayed with him."

"Dad." Don's forehead puckered.

"He said to tell you he'll be along."

"I'll…bet."

"What?" Megan gave him a perplexed smile.

Don's face tightened. "Just not…feeling up to…that discussion."

"What? You think he's going to give you a hard time?"

Don blinked thoughtfully, then shut his eye tight.

Megan laughed. "Trust me. No one is going to give you a hard time." She leaned her elbows on the examining table and propped her chin on her fists. "Because you, my friend, look downright pitiful."

"Hey," he protested weakly.

Her smile broadened. "I just call 'em like I see 'em. In fact, I'd say you should be able to ask for anything you want for a while. Don't waste the opportunity."

"Yeah?" Don gave her a muzzy grin. "Y'think?"

She held up her fingers in a Girl Scout pledge. "Absolutely."

His mouth lifted at one corner, and she thought she actually detected a glimmer deep in his eye. "Then can you…talk to evidence recovery…about getting my bat back?"

_TBC_


	24. Chapter 24

_A/N: Well, we're getting there. Not sure what you mean by family moments, 3rd gal - you mean all three of them together? That will come, but there's some one-on-one stuff first - Charlie/Alan, Don/Charlie, Don/Alan - and some of the other characters too. Emotional resolution. _

_If I don't get another chance to say it before the day, everyone have a safe and lovely holiday season._

Chapter 24

Alan stood by the curtained opening to the cubicle and watched the emergency room traffic scurry past. He figured if he stood there long enough, and watched hard enough, eventually someone would pause to give him some answers. He sensed, rather than saw, the figure that finally stopped by his shoulder, but it wasn't anyone likely to have the information he wanted, so he ignored him until he actually spoke.

"How's Charlie?"

Alan glanced to his left, where he was still able to keep the examining table in plain view. "Having a nap. If his blood pressure passes muster when he wakes up, they'll let him go home."

"That's good." David stood a little behind him, keeping a polite distance. "How about Don? Anything on him?"

Alan returned his eyes on the corridor traffic. "They won't let me see him yet." The words were meant to sound matter-of-fact, but somehow, they came out sounding truculent. "He's in x-ray. Then there's a - um - CT scan scheduled, and a consultation with an Ophthalmologist. Of course, no one will tell me what any of those things are for, but they assure me that I'm not to be concerned. Just in case you thought that medical professionals had no sense of humor."

David put a hand on his shoulder. "I know it's hard - but they're just making taking care of Don the first priority. I know that's what you want."

Alan's begrudging harumph sounded unconvinced. "All these people - you'd think that one - " He stopped suddenly and turned directly to David for the first time. "Wait a minute - you must be able to tell me something!"

"Me?" David looked startled, then the professional face was back in place. "Mr. Eppes, I'm sure Don would much rather tell you everything himself."

"I'm sure he would too," Alan agreed sardonically. "But he's not here. You are."

"Mr. Eppes - I - I really don't know - "

Alan raised his brows. "You were there, right?"

"Only after the fact. And I took over with the crime scene specialists, so I really didn't see - "

"Nonsense," Alan grew brisk. "You still know much more than I know."

"Mr. Eppes," David seemed to be regaining his composure. "I heard Charlie's story for the first time, right along with you."

"Charlie's story," Alan nodded. "What about Donnie's? You're telling me he wasn't even on the job when this happened?"

David pressed his lips together.

Alan fixed him with a narrow stare and waited. He could afford to be patient: he knew the power of that stare, had honed it through years of practice. It always worked on his boys - even today. He saw David twitch nervously and smiled inwardly. _Too easy. I bet you can't lie to your mother, either, David. _

David sighed. "Mr. Eppes, really - there's not a lot I can tell you. We got a call from Charlie saying that Don was in trouble and needed help. We got there as quickly as we could. But by that time, it was pretty much under control."

Alan folded his arms over his chest. "So this - this - felon - just popped out of Donnie's past and attacked him? Out of nowhere?" _There was a new one to stew about. Most parents worried about their grown children getting divorced, or losing their jobs - maybe having a car accident. They had no idea of the joys of having to add heavily armed and vengeful felons into the worry mix._ David's face went blank and Alan raised his brows. Ah ha! He'd hit a nerve! "So he _didn't_ just pop out of nowhere." David gave an exasperated sigh through his nose. Alan intensified the stare. "You might as well tell me. You're not a good liar, David."

"It's not a question of lying," David objected. "It's a question of - releasing the appropriate information to the right people at the right time. Or not."

Alan's voice rose in exasperation. "So you're telling me that my son is having x-rays and CT scans and - and - consultations with eye specialists, that my other son is lying there traumatized by some - some violent incident and I don't have a right to know anything about it? Because I'm just - Joe citizen? Never mind that I'm their father!"

David rubbed his forehead. "That's not what I meant. It's not really confidential, it's - no matter what I tell you, it's going to sound like we knew more than we did. And I just - don't really believe that it will make you feel better."

Alan snorted. "Now you sound like my son. Is that what they teach you at Quantico?"

"To safeguard information? To watch our tongues? To be sensitive to the victims? Yes sir. It is."

Alan pinched the bridge of his nose, the headache that had been building since Megan's phone call suddenly becoming insistent. "All right, David," he acknowledged more evenly. "I know you're trying to - protect me. Do the right thing. But I have to tell you - as a parent, considering the ungodly scraps of information that I have, there is nothing - _nothing_ - that you can say to that me could be any worse than what my imagination is manufacturing right now."

David met his eyes squarely. "Don't be so sure. Sir."

"Mr. Alan Eppes?"

Alan turned his head so quickly that he nearly gave himself whiplash. "That's me."

"I'm Dr. Hannigan." A small woman with grey-streaked brown hair held out her hand to him. "I'm your son's attending. I understand that you have the authority to speak for Don when he is unable to speak for himself?"

"That's right." Alan took her hand mechanically. "And why, exactly, is my son unable to speak for himself?"

"I palpated his ribcage and it sent him under - we haven't really gotten him fully back since. Personally, I think he's been hanging onto consciousness by a thread for a while. You want to come with me and we'll discuss treatment options?"

Alan glanced over at the examining table, then at David.

"I'll stay with him," David assured him easily.

Alan gave his arm a grateful squeeze and started after Dr. Hannigan.

"Oh, and Mr. Eppes?" Alan paused questioningly. David lifted his chin, but there was a hint of a twinkle in his eyes. "I'll have you know that I do undercover work. Successfully, too."

Alan smiled. "I think you're lucky to be alive, then."

David rolled his eyes.

Alan's smile faded abruptly as they entered a sterile, brightly lit room, the walls studded with light panels.

Dr. Hannigan picked up a binder and flipped through it. "Do x-rays make you squeamish? We don't have to look at them."

"No." Alan wondered if he was telling the truth or not. He watched her briskly clip a series of negatives to the light panels.

"Don has what we call a flail chest. It's common with crush injuries - usually auto or industrial accidents, but in Don's case, blunt force trauma."

"How serious is that?"

Dr. Hannigan tilted her head at the x-rays. "Well, it's rarely fatal, but it's troublesome. I'd like to try a conservative course of treatment to begin with, if you're comfortable with that - leave him off a respirator for tonight since the hypoxia isn't pronounced and see how he does. Hold back on surgery until necessary."

"A respirator." Alan stared at the x-rays, trying to decode their secrets. "What - ? Exactly - ?"

The doctor indicated a spot on the x-ray. "See here - where there's a break on either side of these three ribs? It creates a free-floating portion of rib on the chest wall that actually moves in reverse of the normal breathing. Like I say, rarely fatal, but exquisitely painful, and prone to complications - pneumonia, hypoxemia. Right now we're monitoring his blood oxygen levels carefully and he seems to be breathing without serious problem despite the head injury, and the damage beneath the breaks seems manageable, so I'd like to keep him off a respirator if we can, since that can create problems of its own. I've administered a block for the pain and stabilized the break, so that should help him breathe."

"Head injury." Alan felt as if he was being dragged along behind a runaway horse, helpless to find his footing. "What - ?"

"Well, one major one - a couple of lesser ones. No skull fracture - that's good news. The orbital cavity and the zygomatic bone are still intact. Definite concussion though, and a messy wound that needed closing. Lost a lot of blood. They gave him two liters in the rig. He's stabilizing."

Alan moved closer to the x-rays, drawn to them and fearing them at the same time. "What caused that?" Did he really want to know? Too late now.

"Like I say, blunt force trauma." She consulted her binder again. "From the notes here and the bruise patterns, it looks like a combination of a baseball bat - someone with a strong swing, too - and - uh - these are boot prints - toe and sole. So - both kicked and stomped."

All right - maybe David had a point. He hadn't really imagined…he didn't really want to imagine even now. "How can one human being do this to another human being?" he breathed.

Dr. Hannigan studied the x-rays over his shoulder. "I don't know. But when you see what I see every day, after a while you stop asking that question and just do what you can to fix it."

Alan released a soft gust of laughter before he could stop himself. Dr. Hannigan looked questioning. "I'm sorry. It's just - " he shook his head. "You sounded just like - never mind."

Dr. Hannigan indicated the next light panel. "There's signs of blunt trauma here, too, upper left arm - source unidentified. No break, but a bone bruise. Maybe a splinter crack. I'm going to soft cast it to stabilize it since I have to work on the left hand and wrist anyway. The sling will offer extra support to the ribs, too. The hand injury looks older - less than twenty-four hours."

"Charlie - my younger son - told me Don had an injured hand last night." Was the old injury somehow connected? Probably he would never know. Maybe he didn't want to. He smiled in bitter irony. Here he was, a former Californian for Peace - a man arrested for taking part in peaceful demonstrations. If anyone had even suggested back then that he would one day stand listening to the details of a bloody altercation that had actually driven his college professor son to raise a gun and had left his FBI Agent son in pieces, he would have called them crazy.

Of course, if anyone had suggested back then that he would even _have_ an FBI Agent son, he would have called them crazy.

Nonetheless, he had been a little taken aback to find out how aware Don was of his feelings about his choice of profession. Probably he shouldn't have been - Margaret used to tell him, rather dryly, that he was by no means a subtle man. Still, he hadn't meant to hurt Don. It was just he was as strong and stubborn in his convictions as…well…as Don himself.

Dr. Hannigan was still talking - probably about important things he should be listening to, but somehow his attention was continually drawn back to the greyed images on the x-rays, and the little disruptions the doctor had explained denoted the breaks. He couldn't help contrasting them with the images in the old photo albums he had been perusing lately: of his smaller, energetic Don, with the wide, bright smile and roguish dark eyes and surprising streak of sweetness.

"Do I have to sign something? For the course of treatment?"

Dr. Hannigan might have been talking - he might have cut her off - he couldn't really be sure. Wordlessly, she handed him a clipboard and pointed. He found the "X" and scrawled his name next to it.

"Now - can I see my son?"

_TBC_


	25. Chapter 25

_A/N: I know - it's more like "L" is for "Late", but I travel for the holidays, and it's always a time killer. To make up for it, it's longish. And the next is well on its way. Hope everyone had a lovely holiday, and a blessed new year._

_And Patty, you do - more than you know._

Chapter 25

Charlie was sitting up, knuckling his eyes with his fists, when he returned; David sitting on the rollaway stool next to him, carefully toiling away at some version of that ubiquitous paperwork Donnie was always lugging about. They both looked up expectantly when he pulled back the curtain.

"Well," he tried to sound normal as he entered. "How are you feeling, Charlie? You have a little more color."

"I'm - um - " Charlie nodded vaguely, fiddling with the plastic ID band around his wrist. "Did you see Don?"

Alan fought back a sigh and managed a perfunctory smile instead. "No - uh - " he perched on the examining table next to Charlie and draped an arm over his shoulders. "They - still have some cleaning up to do on him, apparently. But I did meet with his doctor." He noticed that David had lowered his paperwork to listen too and turned to include him in the conversation.

"So? What does the doctor say?"

"Uh - well - she doesn't think there's anything life-threatening - that's good news. Of course, he's pretty battered, but I guess you already knew that." Both David and Charlie just looked at him, so he forced himself to continue. "He has - um - a - flail chest, if you know what that is - broken ribs. She wants to keep him overnight to watch his breathing."

Charlie looked at his feet. "Don was sure they'd just clean him up and send him home."

"Yes - well. Unbridled, if unmerited, optimism is part of your brother's charm."

David smiled. Charlie didn't. Alan raised his brows at David and he stood abruptly. "I could - uh - find a doctor to check out Charlie - see if he can be released."

Alan gave him a grateful nod. He watched David push through the curtain, then turned to Charlie. "So. Something you want to talk about?"

Charlie wrinkled his forehead. "I - uh - don't know where to start."

"The beginning is usually as good a place as any."

"There isn't exactly…" He let go of the plastic ID band and faced Alan. "I - part of me was so relieved that I didn't have to shoot anybody, as though doing that would somehow make me less - even though it could save Don's life. What kind of a person does that make me?"

Alan met his gaze, wishing he didn't feel quite so out of his depth. "I'm not sure not wanting to shoot someone is a bad quality, Charlie."

Charlie was broodingly silent. "Don's done it," he said at last. "So, does that mean I think he's less than me for it? That it makes him less?"

Alan studied his face. "Why don't you tell me?"

Charlie finally shook his head. "No. So, why is it okay for him and not for me? And - and - " he closed his eyes. "And even while I was so relieved, there was a part of me - a part of me that - that really wanted to blow that guy's brains out. To shut him up. To make him leave us alone, to make him - stop. I don't - how can I make sense of that? I'm - I'm not proud of either feeling, but - I just can't seem to make sense of it."

Alan gave his shoulder a light squeeze. "Maybe it doesn't make sense."

Charlie shook his head firmly. "That's - that's not possible." He was quiet. "It's like - there were these two new and different people living inside me - people that I didn't know anything about. I'm over thirty, how can that even be possible?"

Alan smiled a little. "I'm over sixty, Charlie - and I find new pieces of myself all the time. New experiences do that to you. And this one is very new for you - give yourself some time."

"Time." Charlie's smile grew a little grim. "Larry would say that time is just - an illusion on simultaneous planes. Maybe he's right."

"Maybe. But it's an illusion we're stuck with." Alan squeezed his shoulder again. "Charlie, you can talk to me about anything and I'll listen as long as you ask, but in this case - I don't think I'm the person you should be talking to. I've never shot a man - never even come close. I think your brother could be a lot more helpful here."

Charlie's eyes widened with horror. "I can't tell this to Don!"

Alan frowned. "Why's that?"

"Because - how can I tell him that I even _thought_ about hesitating to shoot when it was his life at stake? He'll think - he'll think - " he returned his gaze to his shoes with a wince, "that I'm a coward," he whispered.

Alan rubbed between his shoulder blades. "Somehow, I think he'd understand - maybe even better than you do yourself. Why don't you give it a try?" Charlie eyed him doubtfully. "Well, think about it anyway."

They sat in pensive silence. "I have a conundrum of my own I'm working on," Alan offered conversationally. Charlie looked at him. "In all this time - " he hesitated, shook his head. "In all this time you've been working together, I knew how helpful you were to Don, and I knew how he looked out for you. I wasn't always comfortable with it, but because of the one, I could live with the other. It never even once occurred to me…" He fixed his eyes on the plastic loops that suspended the curtain along the rail at the cubicle entrance. "It never even occurred to me that he might - someday - need you to look out for _him_ - or that you would be prepared to do it. Right now I guess I can't decide which of those I feel worse about."

Charlie's face softened. "How about neither?"

Alan tried to smile at him. "Remember when you were little? Your mother and I used to tell you to keep track of each other? The buddy system, we called it. Guess maybe we need to reinstate that."

Charlie snorted softly. "We called it the buddy system - but even at _that _age I knew you really meant that Don was to look out for me."

Alan shrugged. "Things change. People grow up."

This time, Charlie did smile. "Thanks for noticing."

Alan's eyes narrowed slyly. "Don't let it go to your head."

"Mr. Eppes?"

Both men swiveled to the cubicle opening simultaneously. The nurse smiled. "I guess I mean Mr. Alan Eppes. Your son Don is being settled in his room right now, if you want to see him."

Alan stood hastily, then glanced at Charlie. "I think we'd both like to. How is he? Is he conscious?"

"In and out. I warn you, he's not very coherent." She glanced at Charlie's patient band dubiously.

"It's all right if Charlie moves around, isn't it? We're just waiting to see if the doctor will release him."

"I suppose so…" The nurse made a note on a post it and stuck it to the cover of the chart. "As long as we can keep track of him. Don is in room 517."

Charlie hopped off the table, took a second to steady himself on his feet. At his father's questioning glance he nodded assurance. "Let's go."

They found Megan outside of Don's room on the fifth floor, busily taping something into a brown paper bag. She looked up from writing across the tape as they approached and smiled at them. "How are you doing, Charlie?"

"I'm - " Charlie looked as if he really wished people would stop asking that. "Um - you've seen Don?"

Megan glanced a little self-consciously at Alan. "Official business."

Alan's smile was strained. "Guess I need to find myself a more official role than 'father of the victim'."

"Alan, I was - " she gestured to the paper bag. "Collecting evidence. Getting his statement. I didn't want to leave it to strangers."

Alan nodded uncertainly. "I know. This has just - not been my best day."

"I know…" Megan gripped his arm, her eyes moving from him to Charlie. "Um…not to make it worse, but I think they're only letting him see one person at a time."

Charlie blinked.

Alan rubbed at a vein beginning to throb in the middle of his forehead. After a second, he said, "You go, Charlie."

Charlie looked hopeful, then forced an unconvincing smile. "No - Dad - I can wait."

"No." Alan sounded more certain this time. "I think you could use some closure. Besides, I'd like to sit with him for a bit, and I can't do that if I'm thinking about you waiting outside. You go see him, then you can see the doctor."

Charlie glanced at the door, then back at Alan. "You sure?"

"Positive." Alan watched him push the door inward and pause on the threshold, then pulled his eyes away as the door swung closed behind him. He turned to Megan. "Evidence? What kind?" Why did he always feel compelled to ask about these things?

"Oh, photos - Don's clothing. His statement."

"Do I want to see them?"

Megan made a face. "I don't think so."

Alan nodded. "Then how about I buy you a cup of bad coffee?"

Megan brightened. "Alan, that's by far and away the best offer I've had all day."

000

Charlie stepped inside and paused, trying to get his bearings. The room seemed quiet after the bustle of the ER, and Don suddenly looked like a stranger, propped up in the narrow bed with one arm affixed to his chest by a sling and white gauze around his head, covering one eye. Charlie hung back, wondering if he should say something, or if it would be better to let Don sleep. Helpless to know what to do with his hands, he picked up the binder at the end of the bed and leafed through it. _Information. That's always good._

Don stirred slightly, then carefully twisted his head in his direction, blinked ponderously. "Hey, buddy…" he whispered drowsily.

Charlie smiled, suddenly feeling as though his own breathing was unobstructed for the first time all day. _Buddy. The buddy system. _"Hey." He dropped the chart and dragged a nearby chair close to the bed and sank into it. From this vantage point, he could see Don's uncovered eye struggle to focus on him, noticed the slow, careful pull of his breathing.

Don coughed. "….nice…threads."

Charlie glanced down at the blue scrubs the nurse had given him to replace his blood-spattered clothing. "At least mine come with pants," he retorted.

Don gave an appreciative grunt. "…touché." His expression changed slightly, the eye trying to fix on Charlie through a sluggish blink. It came to rest on the ID band around his wrist. "You…? You…?"

"No." Charlie interjected hastily. "They just - you know. Probably I'm going to be released." He gave him a pointed stare. "Unlike you."

Don grimaced. "…head injury. Gets you…every time."

"Uh huh. You have four. Actually."

Don managed to look a little indignant. "Two. Tops. One…self-inflicted. Doesn't count."

"Your chart says four." Don's forehead furrowed and Charlie gestured first to his eye, then his cheekbone.

"Those…those are just…what are you doing…reading my chart…anyway…? Aren't there…privacy…? HIPAA…or something…?"

Charlie shrugged indifferently. "Probably."

Don stared at him again, iris cloudy, frowning with concentration. Charlie watched his throat move in a long swallow. "How…you managing…?"

Charlie looked down at his hands. "Everybody keeps asking me that. I - don't really know what to say."

Don gave an abbreviated nod. "Lots…to process…" He closed his eye, right hand lifting clumsily from the sheet, then dropping back. "If you need to…talk…there's me or Megan…helps. David and Colby, if that's…better."

"_You_ don't talk about it," Charlie pointed out.

Don sighed heavily, which must have hurt, because Charlie watched him squeeze his eyes closed for a minute, mouth tight. "Said…if you want. Usually…you talk."

Charlie nodded reluctantly. "I guess. I talked to Dad a little."

"Dad." Don opened the eye, studied Charlie wearily. "He…gonna…rip me…a new one…?"

Charlie looked surprised. "What? No. Why…? Oh." He made a face. "I don't think so. I mean, you look so - "

"Pitiful…?" Don's mouth twisted into a rueful smile. "That's what…Megan says."

"Well, I was going to say 'like crap', but yeah, pitiful works too."

Don's smile stretched to a grin. "…harsh…"

"It's my brotherly job. Anyway, he'll be so busy with the chicken soup and the hot water bottle thing that he won't be able to think of anything else."

Don groaned. "…God…"

Charlie grinned. "Well, one of you will be having a good time anyway."

Don tried to turn on his side, stopped with a soft hiss. "…mean streak…" he complained.

"Yeah," Charlie's grin was unrepentant. "Or maybe I'm just thinking 'better you than me'."

Don's smile slipped. "….yeah." He tried to turn on his side again to face Charlie, swore breathlessly when he failed. "…about…that…" Charlie stilled, suddenly not sure this was something he wanted to talk about. "…sorry, buddy…"

That wasn't what Charlie had been expecting. "About what?" he asked, bewildered.

"…that you had to…" Don gulped. "…you know…"

Charlie stared, then puffed a laugh. He laughed harder at Don's puzzled look. "It's just - " he tried to catch his breath. "I was - going to say that to you."

"…you?" Don tried to lift his hand again, had a little more success this time. "…for…?"

"I guess I - felt like I screwed things up. I didn't know what I was doing."

Don breathed out a laugh of his own. "Man. …you, me, Megan…what a mess. Charlie, you did…great. I mean, you scared about…twenty years off my life, but…"

"_You?_ Well, what about me? How do you think I felt? I'm afraid to look in the mirror and find out my hair's gone grey!" He blinked hard, suddenly beset again with the image of the smoky, blood-stained hallway. Probably he'd be seeing that every time he closed his eyes for a while.

"Yeah." Don just looked at him. "…guess that's…what I meant. Sorry."

"Well, I'm not," Charlie shot back, wondering if he was telling the truth or not. "It was - an experience." He leaned forward confidingly. "How big _was_ that guy anyway?"

Don rasped a chuckle. "_Real_ big. Why is it…the scrawny ones…never plot revenge…?"

"How did you get him last time?"

"Coop and me…had to double team him." Don gave him half a smile. "…kind of like…this time."

"The buddy system."

"…huh?"

"Never mind." Charlie watched Don's eye flutter closed again and grinned knowingly. "What kind of drugs they got you on?"

Don forced the eye back open, only to have it drop shut again. "Lots…" he murmured. "…lots and lots…"

"I can tell. I better not tire you out before Dad sees you, or he'll be harping at me instead." Don didn't answer and he watched him for a minute, trying to decide if he was asleep or just resting. He wondered what it was Don saw when he closed his eyes.

He put his mouth close to Don's ear. "Hey, Don? I'm gonna go now, but I'll be back."

Don moved his head, but his eye stayed closed. "…kay. If you…need…"

"Yeah." Charlie patted his arm, lightly thumbing the strip of white bandage that decorated his wrist, trying not to think about how they had looked, bloody and inflamed, when he had tried to uncuff them. Another image that was going to revisit him, no doubt. There were a lot of them. He wondered for how long. Still…"You too."

Don didn't stir, but Charlie watched him for a minute; the reassuring rise and fall of his chest, the darkening bruises under the crisp white of the gauze. For the first time since it happened, he felt a small glow of rightness and purpose, of clarity in the confusion. Probably that wouldn't last…probably he had a rocky road ahead, but… it all could have ended so differently. He remembered the sound of the shotgun being readied, the reverberating roar when it fired, how it made him feel, how terrified. One more gaping hole almost torn in the fabric of his life. He could feel the faint thrum of Don's pulse under the bandages. But that's not what had happened. And in the end, almost didn't really count for anything.

"And Don…?" His eyes were suddenly swimming with moisture and he blotted at them with the heel of his hand. He wasn't going to bawl in front of his brother, asleep or no. "I want you to know…" He didn't even know if Don could hear him, only knew that he needed to say it. He dropped his voice to a whisper.

"…fall out or whatever? It was worth it."

_TBC_


	26. Chapter 26

_A/N: Yeah, Alan's up at bat. I do love the Eppes men._

Chapter 26

As he exited back into the hallway, Charlie saw Alan stand abruptly, crumpling a paper cup in his fist and tossing it at the silver trash receptacle nearby.

"So - he awake?"

"Um - like the nurse said - in and out." Charlie grabbed at his sleeve as he brushed past.

"Dad - "

Alan paused. "Well?" he pressed impatiently when Charlie seemed at a loss as to how to continue. His face changed. "Is everything all right? Something you're not telling me?"

"No, no - I just - " Charlie stammered to a stop, a little embarrassed. "Look, you're not going to - "

"Going to…?" Alan prompted. "See my son? Yes, that was the plan."

"I mean - you're not going to - you know - yell or anything, are you?"

Alan stared at him. "What!?"

"Just - Don is a little worried - you know - that you might - yell - "

"Yell?" Alan's voice rose. "Oh, this is wonderful. First I get a call that _both_ my sons are being rushed to the hospital -"

"Dad - " Charlie interjected.

"- then I'm told my older son is practically being put back together with Superglue - "

"Dad - " Charlie repeated, more forcefully.

"THEN," Alan continued unabated, "I find out BOTH my sons expect me to walk into his hospital room and start yelling! Why on earth would I yell - ?!"

"DAD!" Charlie raised his voice to carry over Alan's. More quietly, he continued, "You're yelling right now."

Alan opened his mouth, then closed it with a snap. "Well, can you blame me?" he continued more calmly. "Why don't one of you have a child for yourselves before you try to tell me how to parent? Where do you get these ideas?"

"It's just - " Charlie insisted patiently, pulling him a little ways away from the door, "in - situations like these, you tend to - well - yell."

Alan frowned. "I do not."

Charlie looked apologetic. "Yeah, Dad. You do."

"I - " Alan fell silent, thinking. "I do?"

Charlie shrugged. "You want some quotes?"

"No." Alan made a face. "No thanks. I'll - take your word." He glanced down at his sleeve. "You can let go of me, Charlie - I promise you can trust me alone with your brother."

Charlie snatched his hand back. "I - I know that. Just - "

"No yelling - I promise." Alan's voice had a slight sarcastic tinge. "Go - find your doctor. See if you can go home."

Charlie watched him shoulder his way through the swinging door, half-tempted to follow, then turned away instead. _Naw. Then there would definitely be yelling. _He spotted Colby coming down the hall from another room, carrying a clipboard. _Oh, yeah. Soames. Another head injury, probably. _He remembered Megan and David's asides and studied Colby surreptitiously, but he didn't seem disheveled in any way. He smiled when he saw Charlie.

"How you doing, Charlie?"

Charlie bobbed his head. "I'm - working on it, I guess. How's Soames?"

Colby gave a grunt of disgust. "He'll live."

"Um - you didn't - I mean, Megan and David said - "

Colby looked perplexed, then he gave a short laugh. "Aw, no - they were just being cute. I just questioned him. Besides, you don't need to do much with those bully types - they're all the same. Just a little pressure and he cried like a girl."

Charlie actually found himself smiling.

"Say - David told me what you did." Colby bumped Charlie's fist lightly with his own. "Impressive, man."

Charlie crunched his brows together, not sure Colby wasn't making fun of him, but his expression seemed sincere enough. He remembered the trembling gun barrel and his sweat drenched palms. "It wasn't impressive." He forced a tight-lipped smile. "Believe me."

"No?" Colby's brows lifted. "Going in there with a weapon you don't know and a situation you don't have any intel on without any experience to back you up?" He gave a short whistle. "Takes some stones."

Charlie just looked at him. He hadn't thought of it that way, but Colby seemed honestly congratulatory and a small glow of warmth filled his stomach. Not sure what to say, he shrugged.

"How's the come down? Rough? That's always the worst part."

Charlie found himself nodding. "Yeah. I feel so - I don't even know what to call it."

Colby nodded. "You know what really helps?" Charlie waited. "Shots." Colby smiled. "I like Wild Turkey myself, but everybody has a favorite. Megan and David and me are going out for a round tonight - " A shadow crossed his face, and for a second, he looked as sad and troubled and conflicted as Charlie felt. "After this one, we could use a little come down, too. Anyway - you're welcome, if you want. It really helps."

Charlie was surprised at how touched he was. He couldn't actually remember the last time he had done shots, but - "Thanks. I - just might take you up on that."

"Great." Colby gave him a slap on the back that staggered him. "We'll be at Jherri's - I'll let you know what time when we're done mopping up. Bring cab fare, just in case."

Charlie watched him leave, still twirling the ID bracelet absently.

Yeah, it was going to be a rocky road.

He smiled. But, on the bright side, it looked like he wouldn't be walking it alone.

000

Alan's first impulse was to rush directly to the bed, but he stopped short, suddenly unaccountably shy.

Yell, they said. Yell indeed. What kind of a father did they think he was…?

Don's head was turned away from the door, allowing him a view of a bulging pad of gauze. He tried to identify it from Dr. Hannigan's injury lecture, but the details all seemed to run together in a hazy blur of information. Don was very still. Maybe he was asleep. Charlie had said that he was in and out.

He circled to the other side of the bed. He'd just have a look, reassure himself that everything was all right - maybe sit for a minute.

"You gonna…land?"

Alan started in surprise at the voice, faint though it was. "I thought you were asleep."

"Who could sleep…with all that…yelling…?"

"That was not yelling," Alan admonished, trying to sound stern. "Your brother and I were just having a - spirited discussion." Don's eyes remained closed, but the ghost of a grin around his mouth made Alan smile. He noticed that tubing from the nasal cannula had come loose and reached over to gently tuck it back behind his ear. Better than a respirator, he reassured himself. Much better. "What happened to your eye?"

Don made a face, still without opening his eyes. "Slugged."

"Big bandage."

"Big fist."

"How about this?" Alan ran a finger delicately over the white gauze encircling one wrist. Even though the bandaging on the left wrist merged into heavier bandaging of the left hand, it was still uncomfortably reminiscent of the coverings for slashed wrists. He shivered involuntarily.

This time Don's lashes flickered and he could almost watch him measuring his words, weighing and discarding one option after another, flipping through 'Don's Big Book of Euphemisms', as he privately called it.

"…restraints…" Don offered at last.

Alan shut his eyes for a minute, struggling to control a catch in his breath. "I see." There was an image he didn't care to dwell on. Anxious to change the subject, he said, "You look a little cold. Can I get you another blanket?"

"…thanks…" Don's eyes were still closed and Alan studied what he could see of his face with slight amusement as he pulled a blanket from the top of the small wardrobe. "How far out of it are you?"

Don's lips moved silently, then he sighed. "…_man_…"

"That's what I thought." Alan shook the blanket out and spread it over him. He tugged at the haphazardly rumpled hospital gown, tied in front to allow easy access to Don's ribs. "Of course, it would help if this were - " He pulled the covers back first and reached to thoroughly close the gown, froze, his stomach suddenly twisting up into his throat. _Oh, God. _He swallowed, once, then again; then, when he was certain he wasn't going to need to make a dash for the sink after all, he closed the hospital gown with careful hands, drawing the covers all the way up over Don's sling and smoothing the second blanket over them.

Like a three year old, he mocked himself. If I can't see it, then it's not there. Out loud, he said, "How's that, better?"

"Mm…"

"I should bring you some warm pajamas," Alan continued, chatting to cover his shaken composure. _For heaven's sake, the doctor told you about the damage…you knew. It's just that…seeing it is different_. _Seeing it on your child is…indescribable. _"Do you even have such a thing? I could swing by your apartment and get them for you."

"No!" Don's eye shot open, his voice hoarse with the effort at volume. He made an abortive move to sit up, paled and stopped abruptly with a gulp and Alan's pressure on his shoulder.

"Sssh…" Alan soothed. "What, you think I don't already know you're a lousy housekeeper?"

The eye blinked at him, owlish and alarmed. "…crime scene…" he pointed out anxiously. "…can't - "

"Well, maybe I'll buy you a pair then." Alan patted his shoulder again, because now the one eye was wide and fixed on him. "You need something that buttons up the front anyway for this. I suppose I'd need to cut one sleeve out for your sling, too."

The eye blinked, calmer now. "Don't…plan to be here…that long."

"Uh huh." Alan perched on the side of the bed. "Well, forgive me, but right now you don't look like a man ready to leap up and walk out of here."

The eye dropped to half-mast. "Just…tired…"

"Courtesy of three rounds with a baseball bat, from what I understand."

"…yeah…" The eyelid sank a little further. "…not…the first time…hit…with a baseball bat…"

"True, but the other time you were wearing a batting helmet."

Don tried to shift, seemed to give it up as too much work. "…if I had…any warning…_would_ have worn my helmet. He was just…out of nowhere…"

Alan placed a hand on his forehead and ran a thumb gently over the bandage there. He'd think about that one later, too. Much, much later. "Sudden, hm?"

"…Mm…" The eye was almost closed, but it blinked and pulled half-open again at that. "I was thinking…maybe…Charlie should…call before he comes over…"

Alan grunted. "Or maybe you can do an apartment sweep before every visit. Or keep a few agents at the door."

Don frowned. "…serious…" he objected.

"I know." Alan sighed. "Donnie, do you really think that would work? Besides…" he sighed again, more heavily. So much for his youthful fantasies of making the world a better place. "As much as I - hate to admit it - the truth is, these things happen. And not just to FBI Agents, or you wouldn't even be needed - your job wouldn't exist. The fact is, the world is a dangerous place, and sometimes terrible things happen. Even to innocent people. In a way, we're better off than most - at least you have training and carry a big gun. Most people are left defenseless." Somewhere, the Californians for Peace were NOT smiling at him. The eye was fixed on him again, as if trying to read him. "No one is going to ask your brother to stay away from you and your apartment," he continued firmly. "_Including_ you. We just have to - live our lives, I guess, and hope for the best. Besides, death and dangers come in all sorts of forms that none of us can control. We both have reason to know that."

Don's expression didn't change, but Alan thought some of the pain lines eased around his mouth. The eye slid shut again. "…how is Chuck…do you think? Really?"

Alan hesitated. "He's - finding his way. It'll take time. It's a lot to sort through." He stopped the movement with his thumb and patted Don's head lightly. "I'm guessing that he'll eventually want to talk with you. In the meantime, he's taking his new role as protector very seriously. Even wants to protect you from me."

Don blinked, then managed a perplexed grin, wincing at the pull on his bruised cheekbone. "…kidding…"

"Oh, no," Alan assured him, looking both amused and bemused. "He has definitely taken it to heart. I thought he was going to insist on accompanying me in here." He turned his mouth down at the sound of Don's stuttered chuckle. "It is _not_ funny."

Don tried to shift his sling to cushion the punishment to his heaving ribs. "..oh…man…ouch…ouch…yeah…SO…is…"

Alan struggled to keep his disapproving frown from turning into a smile. "You know, I was taught to respect my father. I don't know where I went wrong with you and Charlie."

Don lay gasping for breath, but he was smiling. "…must…get it from…Mom."

"Hmph. Now that you mention it. She was _very_ irreverent. Take deep breaths, now. Heaven only knows what Charlie will say to me if he comes back and you're not up to snuff."

That threatened to set Don off again, but he settled for smiling tiredly. "…how bout…you? You okay…?"

Alan leaned back against the headboard, letting his hand stay at rest on Don's hair. "Well, you boys always did know how to get my heart moving. Why should now be any different?"

Don stirred as if he intended to answer, but instead Alan only heard a soft exhalation of breath. He looked down questioningly, then smiled. _Out like the proverbial light. _He should get up - let him have the whole bed back so he could sleep comfortably. But somehow or another, he was still sitting there.

He missed Margaret, he realized, missed her right this minute - missed being able to share both the terror and the relief with her, wondered what she'd have to say about Charlie's adventure, about the way their boys were looking out for each other, what she'd say about the men they'd raised. Then suddenly he knew exactly what she'd say.

To hell with the Californians for Peace. They _had_ made the world a better place, in their own way. He glanced down at Don's dark head and smiled.

In two ways, to be exact.

_TBC_


	27. Chapter 27

_A/N: I've been struggling with this one for a while, because it just didn't go where I expected and I'm still not sure how I feel about it. But stories do what they want, and they never stop to ask me._

Chapter 27

"Mr. Eppes."

_A woman's voice. Which would normally induce some pleasant speculation, except that 'Mr. Eppes' seemed kinda too formal to take that one very far…_

"Mr. Eppes? Don?"

A light shake at his shoulder now. And that smell_…oh, yeah. Right - the hospital. That place where they woke you up the minute you finally got to sleep. Come on, give me a break here, do you know how long it's been since I had a full night's sleep…?_ He felt his hand twitch involuntarily, tried automatically to make a fist.

"That's better…are you with me?"

_Sigh. _He tried to make a fist again. They had given him something to squeeze, to help with that…he must have lost it in the sheets somewhere…

"You were moaning in your sleep. Can you tell me what hurts?"

_Oh. _He had no idea…not his chest, at least. That had been on fire, disjointed and sharp-edged as shattered pottery, tamping down his lungs, but now the pain seemed - distant. Two steps away, barely felt at all. In fact…

"…where'd my…legs go…?"

"That's the epidural." There was smile in her voice. "They're there - I promise - but that's the reason we don't want you getting up on your own for a while."

_Oh. Oh, yeah. _He remembered now. _That block thing with the really long name._ It had brought such relief from the tooth-grinding, breath-stealing pain in his chest that he had almost hugged the doctor who administered it and asked her to marry him. Just as well he hadn't. Would have…been…hard to explain later…

There were cool hands on his face, turning it gently. "How about your head? How's that doing?"

His head. He really wished she hadn't mentioned that, because, now that she had, he couldn't help noticing that it seemed to be splitting apart - as if someone had inserted the jaws of life into the center and were forcing them open. He licked his lips, then worried the lower one with his teeth, groping for a light answer.

"Ah hah! Head it is." _She didn't have to sound so darned amused about it. _"We'll have to do something about that."

"…opiads…depress…respir…ation…" Just in case they thought he hadn't been paying attention.

"Then we'll just have to use a nice analgesic, hm? Can you open your eye for me, just for a minute? Then I'll let the nurse put fresh dressings on your wrists."

He peeled his lid back, then immediately slammed it shut with a strangled curse as a bright beam of light pierced his eyeball. "…dirty…trick…" he complained breathlessly.

"Oh, come on, a tough guy like you? FBI Agent?" She coaxed the lid open with her thumb. "That's better. How's your vision?"

Don was silent, trying not to pull away. "…assuming…there's one of you…?"

She chuckled. "Yup. Concussion will do that. How's your hearing?"

"…fine." More's the pity. If he couldn't hear, maybe he'd be able sleep in peace.

"Nauseous?"

He blew out a slow breath, considering, longing to return to the fuzzy world of insensibility. "…only if I…sit up…"

"Then don't sit up."

"…good…advice."

She smiled. "I'll prescribe something for it." Don made a face. "Oh, come on…last time I dosed you, you seemed happy enough about it - you actually proposed to me."

Don reached up to rub at his forehead, found the bandage and fingered it instead. "…did that…out loud…?"

"Mm hm. Of course, I'll have to check with my husband first, but…"

Don rubbed his eye this time, trying to make the black spots lingering from the light go away. At least, he hoped they were from the light. "…always… the good ones…"

He could hear her soft laugh. "Flirting will not keep me from medicating you. But I'll admit, it's a fresh approach."

"…what else…did I say…?" Damn, he hated the drugs - hated not knowing what he was saying or doing. Once when he was in college, he had gotten so drunk that he couldn't remember a thing about the entire evening. Seemed like all the next day, people kept coming to him and telling him about things he'd done. It was the last time he'd ever drunk that much - figured if he was going to make an idiot out of himself, he'd prefer not to be the last one to know about it.

"No State secrets, I promise." She gave his hand a squeeze and he couldn't decide if she was trying to reassure him, or just testing his grip. "You take it easy. The nurse will take care of you and I'll be back to check on you tomorrow." She laid the hand across his chest and gave it a pat. "By the way, I'm thinking a small wedding…"

Don still hadn't finished framing a smart retort before he felt a different grip, snipping at the gauze on his wrist. He shifted to peer at this new pair of hands, but the light in the room was dim, and flickering oddly. Felt like his brain was trying to function underwater… "…nurse…?"

"That's right. You can call me Angie." He choked on a cry before he could stop himself as the gauze was ripped away. "Sorry." A brighter, steadier pool of light focused on his wrist.

The brighter light made his head hurt, so he closed his eye again. "I…pr'pose to you too…?"

"Sadly, no. This is going to sting a little…"

_Sting, she says. _Don clenched his teeth to keep himself from yanking his hand free. And his Dad thought HE down-played things…then something cool sank into his skin, and he puffed out a breath. _That was more like it_.

"The left one is going to be a little more uncomfortable, because the damage is more extensive…"

_Translation…you're going to want to chew it off to escape_…he nodded to show he understood and braced himself.

"You still haven't told me what happened to that one…"

As distractions went, it was perfect…he tried to turn his head, squinting painfully through the bouncing aureole of brilliant light. It dawned on him now that the flickering light was the television, muted, with the closed captions on. And it was showing…okay, not all that clear, but if the figures dashing around were anything to go by, it was probably some sort of sporting event…"…you still here…?"

"Mm."

His father appeared on his right side, no doubt trying to keep his attention away from what the nurse was busy with. He wanted to tell him that he was busted, that he knew damn well what he was up to, but as he contemplated the number of words required, he abandoned the idea as not worth it. "'S late," he settled for instead.

"Not really. Early evening, is all. I think your sense of time is a little skewed."

_That's the least of what's skewed, but okay_…his heart suddenly thudded leadenly in his chest. _Wait…_"Where's…Charlie…?"

"Charlie…had other plans."

Don tried to turn a little, to get a better look at his face, stopped at the nurse's gentle pressure on his arm. His father seemed to understand what was going on and seated himself, leaning forward on his elbows so that they could see each other face to face, clearly.

Clearly, Don reflected wryly, being a relative thing in his case.

"He's not in the hospital."

Don let that settle.

"He's out with your team. They were all going out for…well, I forget what they called it, but it more or less translates to _'since I wasn't taken out by a volley of bullets today, I might just as well go ahead and destroy my liver instead'_."

Don smiled. "Oh." So his team was looking out for Charlie, since he couldn't do it himself right now. _Damn, that was…_well, it was just as well they weren't here, because he felt a distinct urge to hug again. That oughta scare them to death. Somebody'd better unplug him from this stuff pretty soon, or his reputation would be shot all to hell. In the meantime, he should come up with something nice to do for them - something to express his appreciation. Just as soon as his brain kicked back in, he was going to do that.

"Oddly enough, I find I prefer to have at least one of you within sight at all times right now, so I thought I'd sit with you for a while, then head home in time to be with Charlie."

"Oh," he repeated, then jerked suddenly at an explosion of fiery needles in his hand, tried to turn and see what was going on there, but his father tapped his good arm to get his attention back.

"So - what did happen there? Charlie told me you came home last night with it already damaged."

_Charlie - the human font of information - of course he had. _He breathed carefully around the mounting anguish in his hand, held just out of his sight. "- something - stupid."

He saw his father hitch up slightly to watch the nurse for a minute.

Oh, sure, he thought bitterly - YOU get to see, but I can't - and it's _my_ hand.

"Well, _'something stupid' _seems to have left it twice its normal size, with…how many stitches is that?"

Like he could remember. "…a few…" he admitted crossly.

"Twenty-two," Angie-the-nurse contributed pleasantly.

_Traitor. _Don gave her a wounded look. "…ganging up on me?" he queried plaintively.

Angie smiled. "Not me. I'm just supplying medical information. It's my job."

"Twenty-two?!" Alan rose all the way to his feet, craning his neck for a better look. "You put it through a window or something?"

"Mirror," Don mumbled. Then, when that was clearly not going to be adequate, "Punched it."

"Oh." Alan sank back into the chair, his face expectant.

_Great. _Just what he didn't want to…"There was this…kid…" Don closed his eye for a second. Was that really only last night? And man, he would really rather have a better lock on his emotions before he talked about this…

"At the crime scene?" Alan prompted gently.

"No - I mean….yeah…but…it didn't start out…" _Oh, great. If you make me bawl in front of the nurse, Dad, I will never forgive you…_he gulped a breath. "He's dead." Might help if he could just rush his way through it. "Soames - killed him."

"I see."

Don was sure his father was going to reach out to him then, but he didn't, and he felt a surge of intense gratitude: the smallest act of tenderness at this point would overturn his delicate control for sure, and the only thing he knew of worse than throwing up with broken ribs was sobbing with broken ribs.

"You mean like he almost killed you."

"No." Don shook his head, swallowed as the room spun, even with his eyes closed. Dad didn't get it, and he wasn't really sure he wanted him to. How did you admit that you had set out to save lives, and ended up costing them instead? What would it mean to a man like his father, a man dedicated to peace, to know that an innocent boy had died, just because his son did what he did for a living? It had been inadvertent, of course, but that didn't change things for J.D., didn't change things for J.D.'s mother.

"He…killed him…just…" _God. _"…as a message." Salt and water burned behind his eyelids and he ground impatiently at the one not hidden by bandages. "To me."

Silence hung in the air, and Don was afraid to look at his father's face, afraid of what he might see there. Then something else occurred to him and, suddenly uneasy, he squinted his swollen lids apart. "…where did you say…Charlie was…again…?"

"Donnie - "

"…Look, I'm sorry…sorry for…I mean, I know…it's…how it would be for you…if anything happened to Charlie…" _Oh, man. _Hot dampness puddled in his ear and he pressed down fiercely on his eyelid, daring his father to notice, to comment on it.

"Yes. Well." This time he did feel a steadying hand on his arm. "Charlie is evidently in a bar filled with FBI Agents, at a table of FBI Agents, and will be driven home by FBI Agents, no doubt in official armored vehicles. He's so well protected right now that it's a wonder he can breathe."

_That's right. And Soames is in lock up. _Would really help if he could keep an idea in his head for more than…then again, maybe not, because right now, ideas were not his friends. His mind skipped back over the events of the last few days, and he yearned for that vague greyness to return, that place where thoughts seemed to float harmlessly by. And here he went again…he scrubbed irritably at the chilling streaks on his cheeks.

"You know, I saw your x-rays."

Okay, he had to admit that that was one hell of a non-sequiter. Certainly nothing like what he'd been expecting.

"So I probably know the extent of the damage even better than you. I can't really seem to wrap my head around it - what he did to you. That some man could intentionally and systematically do that to another. I mean, I read the papers, I'm not an innocent, but it's…different when it's…you know."

_That? That was nothing. You have no idea._

"I guess what I'm trying to say is - I'm sorry about the kid. I truly am. It's - unconscionable, really. But - I - I can't help feeling that - this - Soames - has done enough damage - brutalized you enough for one day. Please don't let him do it any more." The grip on his arm tightened. "Please."

Don sniffed, rubbing the back of his hand over his nose. He hadn't thought of it that way. Tearing himself up inside wouldn't help J.D. The only one it would please was Soames - and he was damned if he was going to do that. After a second, he gave an abbreviated nod.

The grip turned into a pat. "That's my boy."

_Whew. Well, there was one from the way-back machine. _

"And, just out of curiosity - " Don felt a tissue pushed unobtrusively into his fist. "How is it, exactly, that you think 'it would be for me' if anything happened to _you_?"

"I didn't - mean it like that."

"Glad to hear it." Alan reached for the television remote and bumped up the sound. "I'd hate to have to smack a wounded man."

_TBC_


	28. Chapter 28

_A/N: I know how late this is. Evidently letting a cough go for a month without seeking medical attention is a bad thing. But medication is a good thing, so I'm no longer moving quite so sloooooooooow. Special thanks to everybody who commented on the last chapter - I really struggled with that one and was very unsure about it, so I appreciate the feedback and encouragement very much. _

Chapter 28

Try as he might to string the images together in a meaningful sequence of events, just the way he did with evidence at a crime scene, he could construct no timeline…it all remained a series of disconnected pictures, like a collage.

There had been a…hockey?…game…the clatter of carts and a hush of tangled voices, overridden by Angie's calm, distinctive voice and her soothing hands that seemed to know what he needed even before he could ask for it. The light, even, was fringed with fuzziness, so that the distinction between day and night remained nebulous…until he managed to focus on the figure slumped at his bedside.

Okay, now he had it - unless they had somehow gone back in time thirty years. And Dad had shrunk. So there had evidently been a changing of the guards and it was definitely morning.

Charlie was fast asleep, chair tilted back on its rear legs, head lolling on the wall above it.

Probably he should just let him sleep. Probably he should go back to sleep himself - in fact, two weeks straight of sleep sounded pretty darned good…but first…he narrowed his eye in Charlie's direction, then rubbed at it, trying to clear his vision and get a better look. Nightmares would not be a big surprise after yesterday, and he just wanted to be sure…a cart pushed past the door with a metallic rattle and Charlie jumped in his sleep, the front legs of the chair thudding against the linoleum. He blinked about as if he were as unsure of where and when he was as Don had been. He glanced toward the bed.

"Oh," he said eloquently. "Hey. Morning."

"Yeah. You don't have…a bed at home…?"

Charlie rubbed the small of his back. "Me and Dad came over early. He said you slept through the hockey game and most of the evening, so we thought you might be up by now, but, no - still sawing wood."

"I…did not…sleep through the hockey…" Don defended himself irrationally. _So it HAD been hockey_…

Charlie nodded. "Dad said that, when you said that? I should ask you the score."

_Busted. _He scrabbled for the scraps of his dignity. "…don't…have to tell…you…" _Yikes. Talk about a lame defense_. _Maybe he HAD gone back in time thirty years._

"Or the teams." Charlie continued sweetly.

If he really concentrated, he might be able to remember who was scheduled to play…? _Ouch. Too early for that, evidently_. _Rats. Time for a diversionary tactic_…he cautiously tried to turn his head. The room rocked a little, but didn't spin. _Okay, that was a little better…_"…where is…Dad?"

"He went out to get you some pajamas or something. Told me to hold the fort."

"…that's what you were…doing…?"

"Ha ha."

_Sleeping during the morning could indicate nightmares…or maybe they'd just all been out really late…_"…Dad…went home last night…huh?"

"Oh, yeah. Met me at the door when I got in, just like I remember him doing…well, with you, I guess, after a night out - I don't actually ever remember him doing it with me."

"You were…fourteen when you went to Princeton…didn't get the chance." Charlie nodded. They were quiet a minute. "Did…Mom? Wait up for you…?"

"Drinking age is twenty-one in New Jersey."

"Wow. You waited…til it was legal…"

"I lived with _Mom_."

"Good…point…"

"What do you keep staring at?" Charlie blurted suddenly.

Don blinked. Man, he was slipping. "…just trying…to see if you're…hung over…" he improvised.

"I'm not hung over," Charlie answered indignantly. "I _can_ hold my liquor."

Don chuckled. "Okay. But…tough crowd…" He touched his hairline delicately. Hm, evidently it only FELT like his head was in six or seven pieces…

The cart rattle returned, louder this time, paused outside the door. The door swung inward, and the cart rolled merrily in, jangling all the way. Don saw Charlie wince and hid a smile. _Not hung over my a _-

"Good morning, Mr. Eppes!" This time, they both winced. The girl behind the cart smiled with vague politeness in Charlie's direction.

"You can…call him…'Mr. Eppes', too," Don assured her.

"Oh," the girl looked a little puzzled, but nodded politely. "How do you do. Now, are you ready for a nice breakfast?"

Don kept his smile non-committal. Yeah, he knew this drill - they always acted as though enough perky bravado would distract you from the fact that whatever was on that tray was bound to be unrecognizable, unpalatable, and downright unsightly.

"Thanks," he replied without enthusiasm. "Not really…hungry."

The girl checked her instructions nervously. "Oh, but you have to EAT!" she coaxed brightly. "How do you expect to get strong again if you don't EAT?"

I expect to wait until my brother sneaks something edible and loaded with life-giving trans-fats in here - like burgers or ribs, Don thought. Thanks for asking.

Charlie was blinking at him, frowning slightly. "You should eat, Don," he agreed.

Don tried to focus his one eye into something approaching a worthwhile glare. "Not…hungry," he repeated pointedly.

Charlie's frown deepened. "But - you lost all that blood," he protested. "And for your body to replace it, you need both liquids, and solids that can be converted into liquids. I mean, the saline can only do so much. Electrolyte production and - "

_Yeah. Thanks for the help, Chuck_. Don looked back at the tray and made a face. He had a vague idea that Charlie was still lecturing.

The aide took this for encouragement and lifted the tin lid and set it aside. "Enjoy!" she chirped. "Just hit the call bell when you're done!"

_Enjoy. And she looks much too young to be sarcastic. _Don gazed dispiritedly at the tray.

"Now, see? That looks - um - " Charlie faltered. "Um - what exactly…is that?"

"Got me." Don gave the tray table a gentle push in the other direction.

Charlie grabbed it before it could roll too far. "No, no - you have to - " he reeled back a little. "That - smell is - really unique, isn't it?"

Don looked away to hide a smile at the faint green that washed Charlie's complexion. _I can hold my liquor too. But that doesn't mean I don't feel it in the morning, buddy_. "…want the…tea?"

Charlie eyed it longingly. "No - you should, um - "

Don shrugged, feeling for the bed controls. "Might as well. I…don't want it."

"Well - " Charlie hesitated. "I - " he shook his head. "I don't think - "

"Just gonna…throw it away…" Don chewed his lip warily as the head of the bed started to rise.

Charlie crumbled. "Okay, but - then - you have to drink all the juice."

Don sputtered. "Yes…Mom."

Charlie juggled the plastic tea cup as Don picked up the spoon. His grip still wasn't perfect, but it was better. He poked at the grayish paste in the bottom of the bowl. "Didn't we used to use this stuff as kids…to glue things together…?"

Charlie peered over the bowl rim and shuddered. "I'm sure it's - um - nourishing."

"Right." _Spoken as one who doesn't have to eat it. _Don lifted a spoonful and frowned. _Huh. New problem. Which one of those spoons was the real one…? _He moved the spoon tentatively back and forth, but the mystery didn't become any clearer, and the spoons stubbornly stayed twins. Now he just had to get it all the way to his mouth…without leaning forward…or trying to put it in his eye by mistake…he tossed the spoon unceremoniously back into the bowl. To heck with aerobic eating. He'd stick with the juice.

Charlie was watching him, taking a long sip of tea. "You want some help? I could feed you."

Don closed his eye, already a little tired from the exertion. Or the drugs. Or something. "Touch that spoon…and you're a dead man…"

Charlie raised his brows. "You know, that kind of talk is a lot scarier when you can actually _lift_ more than a spoon."

"Oh, maybe not…_today_…" Don maneuvered the glass cautiously toward his mouth, was reassured when the brim bumped against his teeth.

"You know - " Charlie picked up half a piece of toast and bit it. "It's hard to think of anything dumber than starving to death out of sheer pride."

Don aimed the glass back at the tray. It thumped a little harder than expected when he misjudged the distance, but didn't spill. "How about…suffering with a hangover…rather than admitting to it…?"

Charlie stopped chewing. "I don't - "

Don raised his brows.

Charlie grimaced. "Maybe - maybe just a little - " He noticed the piece of toast in his hand and looked flustered. "Oh - sorry."

Don waved it away and picked up the other half. At least this he couldn't drop all over himself. "…could ask the nurse…for some aspirin…"

Charlie sighed and stirred his tea. "Yeah," he agreed, reaching for the call bell.

"What'd…Dad say…when you came home…drunk…?"

Charlie cleared his throat. "I - don't remember. I think he just put me to bed. And when I ask him if I said or did anything? He just laughs."

Don chuckled, pressing his sling against his ribs. "And I…missed it…"

"Yeah, really funny. It's kind of an evil laugh, too." Charlie pointed to the abandoned bowl. "You're not going to eat that?"

"…saving it…to patch that new hole…in my bedroom wall…" He saw Charlie's face change and cursed himself inwardly. Too soon for that kind of joke, maybe - for him, too. Better change the subject. "So…the night out…did it help…?"

Charlie's chewing slowed thoughtfully. "Yeah," he said at last. "It really did. But - I don't think it was really the drinking. More like - "

"Being with people…who understood what you went through."

"Yeah." Charlie nodded. "It really made a big difference." He stirred his tea and watched it swirl in the cup. "Is that why you don't like to talk to me and Dad about it? You figure we can't understand?"

_Here we go. _"I - " Don studied his toast. "A little, I guess…but - " He hesitated. This was hard enough to explain when his head wasn't all fuzzy with drugs and concussion. "…sometimes…I just want to…stop talking about it, you know? Walk away from it…for a little while. You and Dad are…away from it."

"Oh." Charlie reached for another piece of toast with a questioning glance at Don. Don brushed it aside dismissively. Charlie took a bite. "So, I've been thinking…"

Don frowned at his toast. _Hurts to chew. _He wondered if he'd taken a pop to the jaw, or if that was just from clenching his teeth so hard.

"When you have more - working body parts - I want you to take me to the range and show me how to shoot again. A handgun this time."

Don's toast dropped back to the tray. _Not this again. _"Charlie - " He shoved the tray table away. "C'mon - you don't have…anything to prove. You know that…right…?"

"I know that. I just want a - sense of how it works."

Don sighed, a motion that pulled vaguely on his chest, even through the haze of drugs. "It's not - you don't just - pick up a gun - and that's it. At the Academy…I had to qualify twice…with a handgun, then with a…shotgun…then a…submachine gun. Shot about….5,000 rounds before I…graduated. And I don't even…know how many…since."

"I didn't say I wanted to be Wyatt Earp."

"Then…what? You trying to understand…Soames, this time…? Cause I gotta tell you…I think that'll take a lot more…than shooting…a gun."

"I don't care about understanding Soames." Charlie ducked to sip his tea. "I thought it might - um - actually - " he raised his head, eyes skittering around the room, across the window, then back to his cup. "- help me to understand - uh - " he seemed to steel himself, then fixed his gaze self-consciously on Don. " - you."

Don blinked, then turned his face to the ceiling, hoping the heat he felt rising in his cheeks didn't show. _Oh. _

It took him a minute to find his voice, then another minute to make sure it wouldn't betray him. "Tell you…what…" _Damn. _He paused to clear a sudden fog from his throat. "If you still…feel the same…once I…'have more working…body parts…' I'll…set it up." He turned his head questioningly toward Charlie.

Charlie grinned. "Good." He picked up Don's abandoned toast and handed it back to him.

Don accepted it and took a bite, then stopped, a thought suddenly occurring to him. "Just - don't - "

"Tell Dad." Charlie interjected with a nod. "I won't."

Don half-smiled his thanks. Then, lacking anything more festive and alcoholic, to seal the pact, they ceremoniously bumped toast.

_TBC_


	29. Chapter 29

_A/N: You know, I don't think I can remember another winter with so many people so sick for so long. Glad you enjoyed the toast with toast - I tend to see things visually first, and then try to write them, so I didn't see that problem until I was already there. That last line sure gave me a headache, trying NOT to say "toast with toast"!_

Chapter 29

Alan waited patiently while the guard at the check-in point examined the contents of the box, piece by piece, wondering mildly how FBI Agents ever got fed if this was part of the regular routine. He knew for a fact that they depended largely on take out, and the thought of some young pizza delivery guy having to go through this daily made him shudder. Amazing that anybody would deliver here at all. Then again - his eyes swept the elevator banks - it would be lucrative enough to warrant the inconvenience, maybe.

He nodded his thanks to the guard as he waved him through, surreptitiously slipping him a donut as he collected his box. He wondered if that could be considered bribing an officer of the law. It would be awful if Donnie had to drag himself out of the hospital to defend his father's honor. His heart quivered a little, then righted itself.

Donnie was - well, not fine, despite any protests he might make to the contrary - but unmistakably alive, and for right now, he was willing to take that as enough. And Charlie was alive as well - also not really "fine", though the alcohol last night had kept him thankfully asleep in a semi-comatose stupor. He smiled faintly at the memory.

For right now, he chose to count his blessings. Don was getting good care, and Charlie - well, he was more perplexed as to how to deal with that one. He wondered if it was wrong of him to count on Don for a hand with it - Don, after all, had his own fallout to contend with - but Don could at least empathize with Charlie in a way that he could not. And he had a feeling Charlie was going to need that.

The elevator doors shushed open and he stepped into the hallway, balancing his burden carefully. He saw Megan just leaving the glassed-in war room and smiled a greeting. "Good morning." She looked tired. He hadn't really noticed it yesterday, but she looked as worn as he had ever seen her. "I thought I'd stop by with breakfast. A sort of - thank you."

"Oh, God bless you - " Megan pecked a kiss on his cheek. "Not that you need to thank us for anything, but that box smells wonderful. I'll get the boys - "

"And anyone else who helped!" Alan called after her. "I brought - well, a lot!"

He set the box down carefully on a large dark glass table and got busy emptying it - first paper plates and cups and napkins, then bags of still-warm bagels and small tubs of different flavored cream cheeses. There was a box of donuts and a large tray of cinnamon buns, courtesy of Mrs. Nussbaum, who had evidently heard about Don's hospitalization and dropped them off with a note of consolation. They smelled wonderful, and he and Charlie would never eat their way through them in time by themselves, so had it seemed providential; though he was starting to have an uneasy feeling that there might actually be something to Charlie's teasing. He pushed the thought aside - _nonsense_. They had been neighbors with the Nussbaums for years, and Mrs. Nussbaum had lost Abe not long after he had lost Margaret - she was simply used to cooking for more than one, no doubt. He would have noticed sooner if there was anything more there. She was just a kind-hearted woman.

He pulled out a cardboard jug of coffee, noting with satisfaction that it was still hot. Of course, they had coffee here, but - well, he had tasted it. He wasn't one for fancy coffees himself, but in this case, he couldn't believe that something a little more "designer" wouldn't be appreciated. He unloaded a basket of mini-muffins as well, then a box of mixed pastries, eyeing the spread in some alarm. It hadn't seemed like so much when he had ordered everything, but at the time, he had been almost overwhelmed with a need to show his appreciation for their friendship and faithfulness - not just in the large things, like arresting that monster and getting his boys to the hospital - but in the small things, like the courtesy of personally taking their statements, and the way they had tucked Charlie under their wing and gotten him through that first, horrible evening. Every time he thought of it, his eyes filled and words stuck in his throat, so he had resorted to that which he always found spoke just as clearly as sentiment - food.

He stepped back from the table to get a better look. Well, it was a lot of food, all right, but somehow he didn't feel it would go to waste. He shot a look over his shoulder through the glass, but didn't see any sign of Megan or David or Colby yet, so he glanced around the room. He had never had the luxury of being in here alone - this place where his son spent so much of his time. It was full of glass and chrome - sleek and sterile. He wasn't sure he liked it. He eyeballed the large, high tech viewing screen - everything here was state-of-the-art, that was for sure. He drifted past the table to the other end of the room, and smiled. Here things looked a little more low-tech, even downright old-fashioned - a spatter of photographs push-pinned to a board. Something caught his eye and he took a step closer. _Donnie. _

Curious and intrigued, he moved even closer, until he was almost nose to nose with the board. Donnie's baseball card. How funny to see it here. He remembered how proud he'd been the first time he'd seen it - how he'd read the stats until he had them memorized, handled it until he feared the print was in danger of rubbing off from overuse. He'd carried that card around with him for years, where it could fall into view every time he opened his wallet and excite conversation. It had made him feel like the father of a celebrity. If he was honest with himself, he still carried it today, just tucked farther back behind more recent photos and ID. Maybe he'd take it out someday, to make room for photos of grandchildren. Maybe.

His eyes jumped to the next photo and he folded his arms over his chest. He remembered this one too - college. Donnie looked young here, even to him. And of course, if his team had seen this one, then Donnie's terrible secret was out - that, given the smallest opportunity, his hair would curl. Alan chuckled silently. Poor kid. Genetics were a bitch. If he kept cutting it shorter to keep it under wraps, before long, he wouldn't have any hair at all. Lucky for him it was so thick or he'd freeze.

The next one was High School, and Alan felt a bittersweet twinge of memory. The last time he had seen that particular face, it had been driving away in an old, overstuffed Volkswagen, college bound. He had made plans for himself to fly east with Margaret and Charlie later that day to get them settled in New Jersey, so Donnie had taken off for college alone. He had insisted it was no big deal, and Donnie had always been an independent kid, so Alan had chosen to believe him; but somehow, he still couldn't think of it without a pang, without feeling that he and Margaret should have come up with some way to manage better. Though even today, he couldn't imagine what that would be. He sighed. Life - you made your best guesses then lived with your regrets later.

_Margaret. _The next one looked like a photocopy of an old news clipping, and though Margaret had remarked at the time that no woman _really_ wanted her photograph taken so soon after childbirth, he thought she looked radiant, aglow with the wonder of producing their first child. Funny how, no matter how many generations of people all over the world did it before you, you still felt that you had discovered something unique and miraculous when you held your first baby. Warmed by his reminiscences, he glanced over at the next photograph. And fell back a step.

It was like one of those nightmares that started out as a pleasant dream, only to suddenly descend into darkness and horror. Instinctively, he tried to wake himself, but the images still danced before him, as familiar as the old photos had been, and yet completely unfamiliar too: a hallway he knew as well as his own but splashed with blood, a close up of a bruised and torn wrist he also recognized, a bald man he didn't know strapped to a gurney, a lump rising on his forehead…more…much, much more…he tried to pull his eyes away, to shake himself awake, but his gaze stayed riveted, following the pictures, trying to read their story. He was distantly aware of cheerful voices, then abrupt silence, then a hand on his shoulder and a voice in his ear, repeating his name softly, trying to draw him away. After a minute, he let them.

He knew it was Megan, let her steer him docilely to - some - quiet area, away from the war room, let her get him seated. She was talking to him, asking him if he wanted coffee? Or maybe water…? He nodded, burying his face in his hands; was barely aware that she went away, barely aware when she returned and touched his shoulder again to get his attention, handing him a cup of water.

"I'm sorry, Alan - I didn't think - "

He brushed it off. _Nonsense. As if she was to blame for any of this _- "What does it mean?" he asked at last. "I mean, the other photos - I - I guess I know what _that_ means - but - the ones of Donnie - why - ?"

Megan seemed to hesitate. "They're - part of the case. Evidence."

"Evidence." He still didn't seem to be getting it. "Evidence?"

Megan leaned back, her arm still on his shoulders, and he could tell that she would much, much rather that Don explained all this to him. Stubbornly, he didn't let her off the hook. "They - were showing up at crime scenes. We knew Don was tied in somehow, we just didn't know how until - well, you know when."

"But they're so - personal. Like our own family album. How would someone else get them?"

Megan shrugged. "You can get a whole lot of stuff these days on the information highway, Alan. If you know where to look, or you're determined enough."

Alan nodded, his mouth tight. "So this - Soames. Was stalking my son."

Megan hesitated. "Sort of. Luring him, we think."

Alan nodded again. "I see." He started to rise.

Megan's hand remained on his shoulder. "Are you sure you don't want to sit a little longer? Or I could drive you home."

Alan gave her a mirthless smile. "No. I want you to get back in there and get a share of the food before it's all gone - I've seen those boys eat."

Megan returned his smile, but her eyes looked anxious. "Will you join us?"

"No." Alan's voice was firm. "I want to get to the hospital. To Charlie and Don." He disengaged her hand gently, then kissed it lightly. "Go on. I can drive. And I do appreciate everything you did for both my boys."

"All right." Megan pulled away reluctantly. "I'm going to call and make sure you get there all right."

Alan gave an aborted wave, stepping blindly toward the corridor.

The trip to the hospital was long and slow. He pulled over once because the road kept blurring and further exploration proved that he was crying. He wasn't quite sure why - he only knew he felt angry, sad - violated. As though this monster had reached into their private lives and defiled their private memories. He was angry at Don for not telling him about it, then angrier at himself, because he knew that he really didn't want to know - didn't want to spend the helpless days sick and twisted with worry that some psycho had singled out his son to torment. It wouldn't have helped them solve the case and his terror would have been a distraction for Don, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. But he still felt, somehow, that he should have been able to do better - to be a bulwark of strength for his son. Still, what parent could hear such a thing without going half-crazy with worry?

He pulled into the hospital parking lot and found a space in Visitor's Parking, turned off the engine and reached for his package, containing small toiletries and pajamas and the optimistic addition of a robe. Then he took a minute to arrange his face. Neither of his sons needed to see him like this - if he couldn't be a bulwark of strength before, then he could certainly be one now.

He felt fairly composed when he reached the elevator and pushed the button for the fifth floor, was already working out conversation in his head, something light, maybe, about Charlie's drunken utterances. When the doors parted, he stepped out into the hall, marveling that it could be so filled with sunlight, when inside he felt so dark and cold. He glanced up at the pair waiting for the elevator, his eye automatically classifying the man in the sober suit and sunglasses with the crisp professional air and the pistol that created a discreet bulge on his hip. One of Donnie's brethren, no doubt. He'd know the look anywhere. His eye drifted further to take in his companion, then halted. A newly familiar face. His gaze continued up and up, studied the bruise-covered bump on the shaved forehead, the narrow, predatory eyes, the wrists shackled at the waist. He stopped dead, addressing the man in the suit.

"That's Soames," he said abruptly. "Isn't it?"

He couldn't read the man's eyes behind the sunglasses, but he saw him stiffen. "Excuse me, sir," he said politely. "I need to catch this elevator."

"I'm Alan Eppes," Alan continued, as if the man hadn't spoken, but his eyes were fixed on Soames. "I'm betting Mr. Soames recognizes me."

One corner of Soames' mouth curled up in a sneer.

The Agent hesitated. "Mr. Eppes," he repeated. "Of course. I'm - transporting Soames to a federal lock up right now. Please give Special Agent Eppes my best wishes for a speedy recovery."

Alan nodded, but he was watching Soames.

"So, your kid made it, huh?" Soames drawled. He sounded amused. "Too bad. Give him a message for me, too - that tomorrow is always another day."

The Agent tugged on Soames' arm. "Murder of an ATF Agent, attempted murder of an FBI Agent? I'd say your tomorrows are numbered, Soames."

Soames' eyes danced with unholy amusement. "You never know."

The Agent manhandled Soames toward the elevator. "You just don't know when to shut up, do you?"

"Hey, Daddy Eppes," Soames called over his shoulder as the elevator doors buzzed warningly. "Make sure he knows I'll be thinking of him. I'll hang his picture right over my bunk."

The Agent gave him a shove. "That's enough outta you!"

Alan blinked. "No," he heard himself say, as if from very far away. "That's all right. I have a message for Mr. Soames, too."

He was a peaceful man, given to solving problems with brain and words, not brawn. He had been arrested protesting for peaceful measures, still believed in them and supported them.

So even as he saw his fist shoot forward, heard the crack of bone and saw the spray of blood as it connected and felt Soames rock backward into the elevator wall under his leaping weight; even while his arm pulled back for a second blow, abruptly stalled by the Agent's grasp, he was caught by his own surprise.

_TBC_


	30. Chapter 30

_A/N: Yeah, Alan surprised me too. Never underestimate the instinct to protect your young._

Chapter 30

Alan entered his son's hospital room quietly, a little self conscious about the ice pack wrapped around his right fist and the questions it would no doubt provoke. He needn't have worried. He paused on the threshold, then, moving quietly, stowed the duffle he carried in his unbruised hand by the wardrobe.

_Asleep. Figures_.

Don's medication had been reduced, but it was still pretty intense…he shuddered. There was something about the sight of the IV coming out of his back rather than his arm that he couldn't quite get used to. It looked…creepy. Frightening. And Charlie…Charlie had had a rough night. He smiled at Charlie's chair pulled close to the bed, his head tilted onto the pillow. _And if your brother catches you sharing his pillow, he'll have some pretty smart words for you, too. _

He rummaged in the wardrobe for a spare blanket and draped it over Charlie, let a hand rest on his head for a minute. They didn't even have the television on. Of course, they had to be pretty worn out. He wondered if sleep made it better or worse.

He moved to the larger chair on the other side of the bed and made himself comfortable, reaching for a magazine. _No nightmares yet, anyway. Probably just a matter of time, though._ The doctor had given a prescription, just in case.

It had been a revelation when Charlie had finally come home last night, somewhere around 2 am. He'd realized, with some surprise, that he had never actually seen his younger son drunk, unless you counted some youthful indiscretions with the dinner wine. He'd sighed a little. So many of the typical rites of passage were off-kilter with Charlie.

Colby had appeared at the door with Charlie in tow, looking apologetic, but Alan had just laughed and thanked him for everything. Charlie had explained, with great care and dignity, that he didn't need any help, thank you very much, but that he thought he might go to bed now. Alan had caught him under the arms just in time.

Charlie had mumbled into his chest that he could walk just fine, and Alan had suppressed another laugh, pulling one arm over his shoulders and shifting him off to the side. "That's good," he'd encouraged. "Then let's try the stairs." Probably he should have settled for the sofa. Charlie was deceptively heavy - not at all the little boy he used to heft so effortlessly onto his shoulder. By the time they'd reached the top of the stairs, he wasn't sure which one of them needed to sit down more.

"Dad - I've been thinking - " Charlie slurred, peeling away to start down the hall.

"Not exactly a novelty…no, Charlie, your room is this way - " He used Charlie's sleeve to pull him back.

Charlie blinked at him, eyes wide. "This - ?"

"That's right…" He gripped Charlie's shoulders to steer him into the bedroom, nudging some stacks of papers and a few things he couldn't quite identify out of the way with his foot. Despite all Margaret's efforts, neither of the boys were what you could call tidy. He couldn't imagine where…he winced. Okay, maybe from him. He reached around Charlie to pull down the covers. "Have a seat." He followed the words with action by pressing down on his shoulders. Charlie's knees seemed to dissolve under him and he landed on the edge of the bed with a thump.

Charlie blinked again, staring down at the area between his knees. "My shoes!" he announced suddenly, in a tone that heralded a discovery the weight of the _Eppes Convergence_. He started to lean forward, but Alan caught him by his tee shirt.

"All right - I'll get them. You just - sit still."

Charlie nodded solemnly, and Alan bent to remove the left shoe and toss it aside. He heard the mattress springs creak as Charlie teetered backward and landed sprawled across it with a splat.

"Dad. I've - been thinking…" he repeated to the ceiling.

"So you said, Charlie." Alan carefully removed the right shoe and tossed it next to the other, getting to his feet to examine Charlie's jeans. He could probably get those off - much more comfortable than sleeping in them. He unbuttoned and unzipped them. Charlie didn't seem to notice, so he tugged at the hems. How many years had it been since he'd done this?

"I've been thinking…Larry's wrong."

"Really." Alan lifted the covers high and nudged Charlie's legs. Charlie seemed puzzled for a minute, then drew them up, curling into a ball. "What exactly is Larry wrong about?" He tucked the covers around Charlie, leaving only his head free, let one hand linger on his shoulder.

Charlie yawned, burrowing into the blankets. "'Bout…time…"

"Oh?" Alan snagged the desk chair and wheeled it next to the bed.

"Mm." Charlie nestled his cheek deep into the pillows. "We don't…all have the exact same amount of time…every minute." He fell silent, and for a moment Alan thought he was asleep, but then he added, "…sometimes? We don't have any time at all."

Well, he certainly knew that feeling. "I see." He saw Charlie wrinkle his forehead. "Head hurt? Hang on - I'll get you a washcloth."

He left the bedroom door open and made a quick trip to the bathroom, running a face cloth under the faucet and wringing it out, then folding it into a neat square. When he returned, Charlie really did look asleep, so he lay the washcloth over his eyes as carefully as he could, hoping not to disturb him. Charlie turned his head slightly and sighed. _No such luck. Charlie was evidently as hyped up drunk as he was sober. _

Charlie's face creased in a frown, one hand wandering from under the covers to grope in front of him. "Dad…?"

Alan made himself comfortable in the chair. "Yes, Charlie?"

Charlie's frown deepened. "I can't…see."

Alan sighed inwardly. _Genius, evidently, was not impervious to alcohol_. "It's the washcloth, Charlie - over you eyes."

Charlie's groping hand fumbled for his eyes - didn't even come close. Alan bent over and pressed the washcloth gently against his eyelids, then blotted at his forehead. "See?" He held it up in front of him. "Washcloth."

Charlie blinked at it as if _this_ discovery put the _Eppes Convergence _to shame. "Oh."

"Why don't you go to sleep, Charlie? You'll feel better."

Charlie nodded delicately and turned his face back into the pillow. Alan was just thinking of reaching for one of the magazines scattered on the floor when a small voice piped, "Thirteen and a half minutes."

He turned his head back to his son. "What's that?"

Charlie snuggled deeper under the covers. "Thirteen and a half minutes. Too, too long…"

Alan waited. He had a hard enough time following Charlie's train of thought when he was sober.

"…I couldn't wait. I couldn't. Then…one second…to decide…not long enough. I…figured out the odds…later, I mean - not - not then. The odds that I'd hit Soames…the odds that I'd - hit Don by accident…I could have hit Don by accident. What was I doing, Dad? I had no business with a gun…" Alan watched as two tears streaked from under the washcloth and used it to gently pat them away. Then he silently refolded the cloth and replaced it. "When it comes to math, I can think so fast - and then - when it really mattered - I couldn't think at all." Charlie's groping hands found the cloth this time and folded over it, pushing it against his eyes.

Alan touched his hair. "I have an idea, Charlie," he said quietly. "In the morning, I'd like you to figure some odds for me. I'd like you to figure what the odds are that Don would be alive now if you hadn't done what you did. Can you do that for me?" Charlie made a move to sit up and Alan pushed him back down. "Not right now, Charlie. In the morning."

Charlie stayed still, and Alan was trying to decide whether he was asleep at last or just thinking.

"A lot of variables," Charlie murmured after a minute.

Alan nodded. "Life is full of variables, Charlie," he said quietly. "But there are a few constants, too."

"Mm." Charlie rolled back onto his side and curled up tightly again. This time Alan was sure he was asleep when he said, "Dad?"

Alan smiled a little. Well, he knew this routine. Just like when Charlie was three. Some things never changed. "Yes, Charlie?"

"Don's gonna really be all right, right?"

Alan dusted a hand lightly over Charlie's hair. "We're all going to be all right, Charlie - given time." He heard Charlie's breathing change and leaned back and stretched his legs out in front of him. "And luckily, we all have the exact same amount of time, at all times."

Alan jumped as the door swung inward, realized he'd been dozing over his memories himself. He saw Charlie sit up with a start too, rubbing at his eyes, looked past him to the door, where a slender girl in red scrubs was entering with a tray.

She smiled at him as she deposited the tray on Don's wheeled table. "Jell-O," she explained. "For the man who didn't eat his breakfast."

Don was rousing too, more slowly, as if it was taking him a minute to find all his limbs. "Ate…the toast," he protested sleepily.

"Some of the toast," Charlie corrected.

The look Don gave him was groggily exasperated. "…and the juice."

Alan moved the tray table within Don's reach. "Why didn't you eat your breakfast?"

"Couldn't…identify it. You just get here…?"

"A few minutes ago. I brought you some things. Maybe I should have brought you something to eat, too."

Don looked as if he was trying to bring him into focus. "What you do…to your hand…?"

Alan pulled the offending appendage back into his lap, shrugging awkwardly. "Oh - you know - 'something stupid'."

Don gave him a sharp look.

Charlie craned his neck to see. "Did you slam it in the car door?" he asked sympathetically. "You know, you shouldn't be driving when you're that distracted."

"I did _not_ slam it in the car door." Alan could see Don watching him intently. He met his gaze briefly. "I - well, let's just say there weren't any mirrors handy."

Don tried to pull up straight, was stopped by a cough. "You - " he swallowed and caught at his breath. " - _slugged _somebody…???"

"No." Charlie smiled at him and shook his head indulgently, turned the smile to include Alan. "Don't be silly. Of course he…" He trailed off at the sight of Alan's face, brows pushing together. "I mean, he would never…um…he - " He stopped. "You _did_?"

Alan scowled and rattled his magazine, made a big show of turning the page. "I'm not myself. I've had a very rough couple of days."

Charlie looked nonplussed. "But, Dad - "

" - Who?" Don choked.

"Does it matter?"

Don stared at him. "_Yeah._"

Alan closed his magazine. "Your friend Soames."

"_What - !?_" Don groped for the bed rail and did pull himself up this time. "Where - ?"

Alan rose and palmed his shoulder back into the pillows. "Where do you think you're going? Do you have any idea how much equipment has to move with you?"

" - Dad - " Don collapsed against the pillows and a curled a hand over his eyes. "You - you can't - " he dropped his hand. " - How did you…find Soames…?"

"I didn't find him." Alan watched to be sure he was settled, then reseated himself. "I didn't go looking for him. It was just a chance meeting at the elevator, with one of your cohorts. An impulse. I'm not proud of it." He hesitated, then made a face. "All right, I _am_ proud of it - but I'm not - proud that I'm proud of it."

Charlie raised his brows painfully. "Wow. Dad. My head was _so_ not ready for that sentence."

Don watched him urgently. "Did you - bring my cell?"

"How could I bring your cell?" Alan asked reasonably. "You didn't want me to go near your apartment."

"I think I saw somebody putting it in an evidence bag anyway," Charlie said apologetically.

Don groaned. "…_No_. My gun…my bat…my cuffs…now my cell…" He glanced at the phone on the bedside table. "Does that work…?"

"How do I know?" Alan picked it up and moved it out of his reach. "It doesn't matter anyway - you're not going to work. I only damaged him a little - one punch. I wasn't fast enough for two," he added under his breath.

Don groaned louder. "…who was the agent…?"

"We didn't have time for formal introductions."

"Dad…you could be…in trouble - " Don stared at the phone as though that would make it shift closer.

"The agent said he didn't see a thing."

"Then _he_ could be in trouble…" Don started to reach for the phone, then hugged his sling against his chest instead. "I need… to do…damage control…"

"Sorry, Donnie - I think that's going to be up to somebody else this time. Somehow I think it will all work out all right. Anything good on TV?" Alan reached for the remote.

Charlie watched him admiringly. "You really hit him? Where?"

"The nose, I think."

Charlie leaned back in his chair with a sigh. "Wow. I really wanted to do that."

Don cradled his head in his hand. "Where is my…civilized…peace loving…family…?" he moaned. "Suddenly, they're Ma Barker's…vigilante tribe…"

Alan patted his leg under the blankets. "Don't get yourself all worked up - that can't be good for you. Eat your Jell-O."

Don let his hand fall and sank back into the pillows. "…what…were you _thinking_…?"

Alan fixed him with a meaningful stare. "What can I say. There was this kid." He let his gaze travel to Charlie. "Two kids, in fact."

_TBC_


	31. Chapter 31

_A/N: Well, here we go at last. And we open Friday, so I should probably be pretty much back to normal then. Just another good reason not to post in progress. Hard to believe now that I expected to have this story put to bed in September, but I expected it to be about 15 chapters shorter, too. Many thanks to everyone who has stuck with me so far, and many apologies for the delay._

Chapter 31

"Easy, easy - you want to take it slow…"

_This is fast? Last year I took down a track star at a dead run. Believe me, this is nothing like fast._

"You may be a little dizzy at first…"

Don curled his right hand tightly in the sheets. His left arm, still trammeled by the sling, pitched his equilibrium and he tilted sideways. Out of his one-sided peripheral vision he saw his father move toward him, but the nurse was faster, holding him steady and gradually rebalancing his center mass. Don shut his eye for a moment. The ophthalmologist had removed the bandages yesterday and replaced them with a gauze pad and an eye patch. He felt a little silly about the eye patch. And now that he could keep it open for longer periods of time, this one-eyed thing was getting weird. With the absence of peripheral vision on one side, he was startled by the sudden presence of indistinct and un-nameable shadows, dimly threatening. Like a damn horse, he thought grimly.

"How you doing? Okay?"

_Okay. _Well, now that the most embarrassing of the equipment had been removed, things were definitely looking up. "Yeah," he breathed after a minute. "Okay." At the edge of his vision, he saw his father roll his eyes and resisted the urge to say something smart. Oxygen was at a premium these days, despite that plastic thing the respiratory therapist kept making him blow into.

"All right, ready to stand? Slide, don't jump - you don't want to jar anything."

_Jump? Right. They were hilarious around here_. He felt the solid pressure of the floor push against the soles of his feet, strangely foreign, took a second to find his balance. _All this fuss over a trip to the bathroom_.

He caught the light from the window, then a glimpse of green, turned toward it instinctively.

"Whoa - I think a trip to the bathroom is enough for right now. If you're feeling well enough later, maybe you can try sitting up in a chair for a while."

_Sitting in a chair. Woo hoo. How much excitement can one man take?_

"All right, let's walk - you're doing fine - how's that feel?"

_Feel? A whole lot more like shuffling than walking. A whole lot like somebody snuk in in the middle of the night and swapped my body with that of an eighty-year-old geriatric. A whole lot like I'm trapped in some bad dream and keep waiting for the alarm to wake me up._

"The bathroom's right here."

_No. And all this time I've been thinking that was the door to the Yankee dugout. _To make up for his uncharitable thoughts, he offered the male nurse a weak smile and pushed the door inward. The nurse did not release his careful grip on him and the weak smile faded. He turned his head questioningly, so he could find him with his unpatched eye.

"I can't leave you alone, Mr. Eppes," the nurse explained politely. "You could fall."

_You…? _Don just stared at him, trying to make sense of what that meant.

"You couldn't catch yourself with one arm," the nurse continued kindly. "And if you punched any of those ribs into a lung…well…"

"Why don't I do it?" He could just make out movement from his father's corner of the room.

"No - " _Wow, Eppes - is that really the voice that commands raids? _He lifted his good hand, caught at the door frame when that unsettled his balance again. "S'okay." It was anything but okay, but it was unavoidable, so…Dad, nurse - what difference did it make? At least the nurse did this kind of thing all the time.The nurse steered him gently inside and shut the door behind them. Don closed his eye and waited for it to be over.

This is great, he thought crossly. Somebody else washes me. Somebody else shaves me. Somebody else helps me do my business. There has to be some way to regain some shred of human dignity.

He took a tentative breath, testing his ribs. The doctor had replaced the epidural infusion thing with some kind of local block, so his ribcage still seemed curiously far away, as if his detached head and shoulders were mysteriously free-floating above his legs.

_Legs. _Well, it was nice to have those back anyway, useless though they seemed to be. No, the discomfort wasn't in his legs, or his ribs - it was firmly centered in his skull, where no drugs seemed able to fully ameliorate the pressure behind his eyes, the sudden sparkles across his vision. It nagged at him, a steady, whining, gnawing pain, endlessly building and receding, even in his sleep.

The light hit his face again as they started their unspectacular pace back toward the bed. _Now here was a question - why was it that those windows never opened? Wasn't fresh air supposed to be good for patients? I'd about kill for some non-manufactured, non-filtered, honest-to-goodness, smoggy LA air_. He stopped again, hoping to catch a glimpse of the view.

"Need to rest?"

Don shut his jaw on a biting answer he didn't have the wind for anyway. Besides, the nurse - what was his name again, Mike? - was a nice guy. Tried to make things easier for him. It wasn't his fault that he felt like crap, inside and out.

"Naw," he puffed instead. They shuffled to the bed again, and Mike helped him to lower slowly onto the edge. _Can't do a damn thing with one arm. _He sat a minute, catching his breath. "Do I - still need the sling…?"

"I'll check with the doctor," Mike was sliding his slippers off of his feet. Just in case the eye patch didn't make him feel stupid enough. "But probably. You don't want to lean on that hand, and it helps support your ribs."

This time he did grumble something indistinct under his breath and he saw his father's mouth turn up at the corners, his expression an odd combination of exasperation, affection, amusement and…something else. _Admiration, maybe? Naw, that couldn't be right._

"Why don't I take it from here, Mike?" The smile lingered in his father's voice. "You must need a break from him by now."

"Hey," Don protested unconvincingly.

"Nope - he's one of my favorite patients," Mike said comfortably. "But if you want to take care of this, I'll get his vitals."

Don gave his dad a triumphant look. He felt a firm support at his back, a gentle hand help him swing his legs up. Somehow, lifting his legs had become a veritable circus trick.

"How do you like those pajamas?" His father's voice rang a little in his ears.

"Great," he huffed. "You raid…Ward Cleaver's…closet?" _Heck, there was always enough breath to be a **little** smart._

The covers dropped back over his legs. "Those stripes are classics."

Maybe it was his imagination, but he thought his father sounded just a little bit smug. _Laugh it up, Dad. I won't be here forever. And I have a long memory. Very long. _The covers felt disturbingly cozy, and being able to put his head down again was like the answer to a prayer. _All from a measly trip to the bathroom. Man._

"So. How are you feeling?"

_Like crap. Like hell. And so, so, so, so tired of this. _His eye drooped, but he forced it open again. "Hey, Dad?" He caught his father's expression and shifted uncomfortably. _He's not going to read me **Good Night, Moon **or something, is he? I mean, at least wait until Mike's gone._

"Yeah?" His dad's voice held an oddly tender note.

"Isn't it…time I went…home?"

"I think you're going to need to be a little more ambulatory before you can go home, Donnie."

_Don, Dad. My name is Don. My birth certificate says so. _He could hear Mike checking things, hear the scratch of his pen as he wrote them down.

"Come on - you know you love us. Don't be in such a hurry to leave."

Don snorted faintly, wondering, with some alarm, if it was even possible that he might be going to sleep again. A distant memory from the drug-hazed fog that was his mind rose to the surface and he frowned. _Love us_…

"Mike…" he asked, with no little trepidation. "I didn't…propose to you…too…?"

The world was falling away beneath him now. It took him a while to figure out that someone was lowering the head of the bed. _No, no wait - I wanna stay awake…I wanna be - normal again…_

"Just a quick nap. I promise nothing exciting is going to happen while you sleep…"

So they could read him now. When did he become so transparent? That was Charlie's job…

"Yeah." Mike's voice now. "But don't worry about it. Dr. Hannigan and I have it all worked out. We're dueling over you with hypos at dawn. Hope I win."

_Funny guy. _He licked his lips to voice an answer, heard the sound of his chart slamming closed. He'd need to turn his head all the way to see if Mike was still there, and he didn't think he could manage it.

"You know, if I'd known that this was all it took to get you to propose…not that Mike is exactly what I always pictured, but you get more flexible with your expectations as you get older."

"You're…a riot…"

"Don't fight it so hard. Sleep is a good thing."

"I don't…I'm not…" C'mon, Eppes, he mocked himself, you're not what? "…s'all I do…"

"Well, concussions make you sleepy. Drugs make you sleepy. Healing makes you sleepy. Guess you need to factor in a lot of sleep for a while."

_But I hate it. _He didn't even try to say it out loud, it sounded so petulant. "…my…watch…?"

"Why? You got someplace you need to be?"

_C'mon, Dad - I just want some idea of how much time goes by - what day it is. Just some little, tiny measure of control - is that so bad? _

He hadn't minded it at first - he really hadn't. It had been such a relief to know that Charlie was relatively unhurt, that he was still alive, that the worst of it was over - he hadn't found the energy to care much about anything else. And with the bone-gnawing dread of the last few days finally put to rest, and those dual intruders, drugs and pain, combining in a kind of smothering inertia, it had felt like he could sleep for a month straight. Now his body still seemed to want to sleep for a month, but his mind was bored, restless.

"Where's…Charlie…?" He could tell from his father's expression that he had asked that question before - maybe too many times. He struggled to find a casual tone. "…working…?"

"He's with Amita - they're getting set up to start the year. Unless I'm mistaken, there's a plot afoot to make sure he's never left alone. He'll be by later."

_Good for them. _"He doesn't…have to. I just…wondered…" Soames was in lockup. It was ridiculous, this lingering sense of dread. The guy had a right to get back to his life - just like he'd like to get back to his own. "How's he…sleeping…?"

There was a pause and Don tried to study his father's face in the shaft of blurry sunlight.

"Sleep walking," he said at last.

Don frowned. _Damn. But - inevitable, probably. _"Should…see somebody."

"Megan set him up with some expert - Trauma Recovery. You know Charlie - likes to talk things through."

"Good." Don closed his eye.

"I thought so. I'm glad _you_ think so."

_Subtle, Dad…subtle, subtle. _"They'll…make me."

"They'll make you go. They can't make you do more than go through the motions."

Don swallowed drowsily. It was different for him - for him it was just a way of life. Not so for Charlie. "Yeah. Well."

"If you could promise me to give it a real shot - I might be persuaded to bring you a watch."

Don gave a bark of laughter that started him coughing. He accepted the bent straw his father proffered and sipped slowly. After a second he released the straw. "Man, you don't…play nice."

"Tough love, my friend. What do you say?"

Don carefully turned his head, trying to find the window again. "Whatever…"

"Ah. The ambiguous non-answer."

"I don't get…what you think there is…for me to talk about…"

"How about your friend? The kid that died?"

Don looked at him sharply. _Ouch. Way below the belt_.

"Or your brother. You seem to be stuck there, too."

"Well, Charlie was in…danger. Just from coming…to see me…"

"I guess that would be my point."

Don's throat burned and he coughed again, discreetly, to clear it. "People are in danger…just because they're in my life. You think a shrink…can fix that…?" His voice rose sharply, flattening his lungs and pinching at his temples, the words stark and surprising as they hung, neon bright, in the air. _Where had THAT come from…?_

_No. No. That wasn't right. It wasn't that simple. It was just…_

_Oh, God. _

Spots danced before his eyes and he massaged his good eye, then the eye patch, trying to concentrate and getting his lungs working again. _In. Out. Come on, you can do it…it just - it just sounded bad. It wasn't like that. Not really. It wasn't. It was_…"I'm …tired…" _Coward._

"All right. Megan wanted to stop by later."

_Yeah, great - just what I need. One more person poking through my head._

"I'll call her when you wake up."

_Sure. Show off that YOU have a phone…_

"I'll be here in case you need anything."

He coughed again, felt his lungs settle into a steadier rhythm. "Yeah…well…it's your life, I guess…"

"Damn straight."

_Don't be so cavalier. Being near me is evidently a high risk occupation. No, I can't think like that. I'm just tired. A little sleep will put everything back in perspective_.

He clenched his eyes tight shut and willed sleep, so close just a few seconds ago, to come and blot everything out. He was almost there when he felt a ghostly touch brush over his hair, then a light pressure rest there. He had an urge to laugh, could sense that it was too perilously close to tears to risk and just kept breathing instead.

_I've been in countless firefights. Seen men throw themselves on grenades, stand firm before speeding cars, take down killers twice their size and firepower. But, Dad, even with all that - you are still the bravest guy I know_.

_TBC_


	32. Chapter 32

_A/N: Yeah, I'm back on track at last. That is, I have pneumonia, but at least it explains why I'm moving so slow. So weird - like something I put in one of my stories, not at all like something that happens to me in real life. Poor Don may have to suffer for it at some point._

_Thank you for your patience, and thank you to everyone who enjoyed "Dear Mom", too. I wasn't sure about the second part of this and that's one reason for a couple of day delay in posting, but my faithful beta liked it, so here it is._

Chapter 32

"Hey."

Don started, but took a minute before opening his eyes, enjoying the feel of sunlight on his eyelids. Eyelid, he mentally corrected as he stretched, trying to place himself. The voice and the background didn't match, and it took him a second to reconcile them.

He opened his eyes. _Eye._ He was warmed by a flood of sunlight and he listened automatically for outdoor sounds - the faint rustle of birds and wind, the smell of grass. Instead he heard the muffled sound of the PA system, the indistinct chatter of other conversations. _Oh. Oh, yeah._

He squinted at the blurry image in front of him. "I wasn't asleep." _Ouch._ That sounded defensive - even to him.

"Of course you weren't," the blur answered consolingly. "You were working on your tan."

He grinned involuntarily. "I'm telling you the official story. In case you're asked."

"I didn't see a thing." Surroundings wheeled into focus as the figure perched on the edge of a nearby planter and eyed him, considering. "I like the eye patch. Very piratical."

"Yeah - next week I'm getting a gold earring to go with it."

"You look better. Not good, mind you - "

"Thanks. I'm flattered - really." Don fiddled self-consciously with his sling. "Glad you could come all this way to hit a guy when he's down."

"Oh, now, I didn't come empty handed - " A paper bag, darkened in spots with grease, jiggled in front of his face.

He tilted his head, studying it. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Rueben - still warm - extra cheese."

Don smiled as he accepted the bag. "You are my favorite employee. By far. Tell David and Colby."

"I always knew that." Don fumbled a little getting the long sandwich out of the bag one handed, but he noticed with appreciation that Megan made no move to help him. Instead, she produced a bottle of water from somewhere, unscrewed the top and set it next to her on the curved wall of the planter, within his easy reach. "You're going to want that. And I brought breath mints. You'll want that too, after the sauerkraut."

Don took a bite and savored it. "You forget - " he talked around it. "Here in the hospital, there's not a whole lot of need to be kissing sweet."

"I'm thinking of the nurses…your dad…"

Don put down the sandwich and reached for the water, using it as an excuse to avert his eyes. _Yeah, yeah._ He'd be back with all that soon enough.

Here in the hospital solarium, he could almost imagine he was back to normal - no bed with rails, no tray tables or meds, no smell of sickness, something resembling fresh air. It was almost like being in a park. If you squinted just right, you could even block out the IV stands and wheelchairs around the other occupants.

Mike had walked him down here and helped him get settled in a chair - a regular chair, not a wheeled one - with a promise to come back and check on him in an hour, and a threat if he should try to get up by himself and disturb his ribs. He had been tempted - just a couple of steps, maybe, to see how he could function - but found he needed two hands to push himself up and that even the attempt pulled threateningly on his ribcage. With Dr. Hannigan's warnings about six to eight weeks on a respirator if he upset his healing so far ringing in his ears, he had abandoned the idea as too risky. Funny how many things were attached to your ribs - you just didn't notice until they weren't working.

"So, how long? For the eye patch, I mean?"

"They're gonna try taking it off in a couple of days - let my eye adjust to the light. I'm looking forward to a little depth perception again." _Depth perception._ That sounded like a metaphor for everything he was missing right now. Depth. Perception. Everything he remembered about this - incident - seemed so black and white and flat as a cartoon. It became 3-D in his dreams. He wondered, not for the first time, what it was that Charlie saw in _his_ dreams. His chewing slowed at the thought, then stilled.

"Hey," Megan nudged his knee. "There could be dessert for someone who finishes his whole sandwich."

He smiled, but it felt a little forced.

"A blondie - with lots of nuts and chocolate chips. You're lucky I didn't eat it myself."

His smile grew rueful, and more genuine. "Those are best with coffee." No coffee, no beer. Two of his dietary staples. He felt like a monk. That is, if monasteries took Jewish boys. He picked half-heartedly at the sandwich. Megan had gone to a lot of trouble - it was the least he could do. "So - " _Time for a change of subject._ "What brings you here? Taking up catering, or can't resist the lure of the hospital solarium?"

"Maybe I missed you."

"Right." He tried another bite.

"I do miss you," she insisted. "I have to cheer myself up by looking at my own watch every couple of minutes. It's just not the same." Don gave her a look and she smiled. "I wanted to see if you're behaving. And - to do you a little favor. Besides the sandwich."

"Yeah?" Don stopped chewing, curious. "What kind of favor? You going to spring me?"

"That wouldn't be doing you any favors. No, I brought you someone you've been wanting to see." Don wrinkled his forehead at her. "I'll get him. I asked him to wait. I knew you wouldn't want him to see you - um - working on your tan."

Don almost smiled. _What the heck was Reeves up to?_ He tried another bite of his Rueben and shifted in his chair, seeking a more comfortable position. When he saw Megan making her way across the solarium a few minutes later with a medium-sized man in a charcoal grey suit, he was no more enlightened. _FBI guy, definitely. But what…?_ They stopped in front of him.

"Special Agent Eppes, this is Special Agent Burrows. Agent Burrows, Special Agent Eppes."

Don put down his sandwich and wiped his fingers hastily on his robe before holding them out to shake. "Agent Burrows. It's good to meet you."

Agent Burrows took his hand in a strong clasp. "Agent Eppes. It's an honor."

"Don."

"Then you'd better call me Hank."

Megan hung back. "I'll leave you two to talk. But I'll be back before I leave."

Don gave her half a wave and Burrows pulled a chair over. "You doing well, sir? Er - Don?"

"Yeah, sure, I'm - " he gestured dismissively at the sling. "This is, you know, nothing." Burrows offered no comment, so he continued. "Look, you probably know what I want to talk to you about - what happened with my dad?"

Burrows expression didn't change. "Sir? I mean, Don?"

Don sighed. "Yeah. Okay. This is just me, Burrows, and my dad told me all about it - it's okay. This is off the record."

This time, Burrows expression became bland. "I'm sorry - I'm not sure what you're referring to."

Don grit his teeth. "I'm telling you, I saw his hand. I know what happened. There's no reason to pretend it didn't. I just want to try and make sure things stay okay for my dad."

"I wouldn't worry about it, sir. It's not regular, of course, for relatives of victims to talk to the accused, but it's not actionable either."

Don kneaded his forehead. "He did more than talk, Burrows - you and I both know that."

Burrows expression became even more blank. "I'm sorry, sir - I really don't recall anything beyond a short conversation. I'm not sure what we're talking about."

Don studied him, half exasperated and half admiring. "Well, that's interesting," he said at last. "So I guess Soames' nose just dented itself?"

"Oh, that." Burrows features arranged themselves into contrite lines, but there was a faint gleam in his eyes. "Yes, that was embarrassing." He leaned forward earnestly. "I'm thinking that Soames was unsteady on his feet - because of the head injury? - and that's how he fell into the elevator wall. Awkward to explain of course, when it happened on my watch."

Don narrowed his eye at him. "Yeah. I'll bet that _was_ hard to explain."

"If you've read my report - "

Don scoffed. "Like anybody will bring me reports in here. I guess they're afraid I'll get a paper cut and bleed to death or something."

Burrows chuckled, caught himself and hastily restored his sang froid. "I could get you a copy, sir. Don."

"Yeah?" Don tilted his head at him. "I'd appreciate that, Burrows." He glanced down at the sandwich in his lap. "You like Ruebens?"

Burrows leaned forward wistfully. "Sauerkraut?"

"The red cabbage kind."

"Oh." There was a pregnant pause, then Burrows shook himself. "I - I couldn't. That's your lunch - "

Don gestured to the second half of the sandwich. "You'd be doing me a favor. I'm told I won't get dessert unless I finish it all. And that ain't happening without some help."

Burrows reached down eagerly. "Well, when you put it that way…"

They chewed for a moment in companionable silence, then Don said, "So. What about you? You catching any heat over this?"

Burrows face grew bland again. "About…?"

Don choked on his sandwich. "Oh, for the love of God, Burrows - "

Burrows held up a hand. "I haven't had any complaints about my report, if that's what you mean. Everyone seems perfectly satisfied that it happened just as I said."

Don reached for the water. "Huh. Hell hath no fury like lawmen who have lost one of their own, I guess." Burrows opened his mouth, but Don waved him to silence. "Yeah, I know - you have no idea what I'm talking about. I get it. Look, if anyone - does - decide that they have questions about your report? Let me know, okay? I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you, sir. Of course, I can't imagine - "

"Yeah, yeah, okay - duly noted."

"Sir? I mean, Don?"

Don crumpled the waxed paper that had held his sandwich. "Yeah?"

"I do have one question."

Don raised his brows.

"What's for dessert?"

Don's brows lowered. "I didn't say anything about splitting dessert," he reproved. "But…" he sighed resignedly. "I guess I owe you." He shifted again to relieve some of the strain on his ribs. "I'm told it's a blondie - extra chips, extra nuts. I haven't seen it myself, but I think we can take her word. Reeves is a bully, but she's not inclined to lie."

Burrows cleared his throat delicately. "She looked very scary, sir," he agreed politely.

Don made a noise in his throat. "You have no idea."

0

"You get what you wanted out of Burrows?"

Don peeled an eyelid back at her, wondering if it was even possible that he had dozed off again in the time it had taken for her to walk Burrows out. He tried to look alert. "Got everything I'm going to, I guess. Guy really takes the _'don't ask, don't tell'_ directive to heart."

"Well, at least you know your dad is in good hands." She swatted him lightly on the thigh. "How about you? You look like you could stand the sight of your bed."

Don shrugged. "I like it out here."

"And you're not allowed to go back by yourself?"

Don grinned before he could stop himself. "Pretty much. Mike should be along soon."

"You know what I'm finding really weird?"

"What's that?"

"You haven't asked me a single question about the case."

Don looked at her, then looked away. "What's to ask? I know they transported Soames, I know you have to be lousy with evidence - since I'm missing my phone, my gun and my baseball bat."

"Then here's good news: they've released both your phone and your gun, since it wasn't fired, as immaterial to the case."

Don brightened. "That's great. What about my bat?"

"The weapon? You're kidding, right? It's already labeled Exhibit 12."

Don grumbled under his breath, then stopped. "Are you saying you can get me my phone?"

"Are you even allowed those in the hospital?"

"One way to find out."

"Well, there's more than one way, actually, but I guess you're a fan of the _'ask for forgiveness, not permission'_ one."

"I just want to use it as a clock."

"Right. Why do I feel like I'm aiding and abetting?"

Don flashed her his best smile. "Because you have a suspicious mind. C'mon, what do you say?"

Megan sighed. "All right, but if it gets me in trouble, I'm not going down alone - I'm taking you with me."

"Deal." _One little win in the 'D.Eppes' column._ "Thanks for lunch, by the way." He hesitated, trying to figure out how to broach a different subject. "Dad tells me you recommended one of the guys in Trauma Recovery to Charlie," he offered after a minute.

Megan shrugged, but she had that _'profiling in progress'_ look in her eye. "Seemed to make the most sense to choose somebody with some expertise in his situation."

"Yeah. Definitely." He hesitated again. "So, how's that going? He hasn't been around for a couple of days. I mean, I know he's starting up school again and everything…"

The _'profiling in progress'_ look sharpened. "I haven't seen much of him myself."

"Probably just busy with school, then." Don was sorry he'd brought it up. "He - wants me to teach him how to shoot." _Sheesh, Eppes. Maybe you could use a little brush up in the 'don't ask, don't tell' directive yourself_.

"Yeah?" Megan looked thoughtful. "That's normal, I guess. After feeling out of control, it's natural to look for a way to feel in control again."

"I guess so."

"You don't approve?"

"No, I - " Don shook his head. "I don't approve or disapprove. It just - feels weird."

"Weird how?"

Don gazed across the solarium, saw Mike's burly figure moving toward him. Maybe it was rushing to get it out before Mike got there that made him uncharacteristically blunt, or the drugs, or the fuzziness that clung to the edges of his skull, but to his own surprise, he blurted out, "I feel like - somehow, I ruined everything."

_TBC_


	33. Chapter 33

_A/N: Yeah, I know. Evidently all the mucus from pneumonia invades your brain and your thought processes are very slow. Seriously, don't ever get this thing - it really enervates you. Not nice. I'm sorry for the nasty lag so near the end, but we're almost home free._

Chapter 33

Don sat in the battered chair by the window and stared at the hand resting on his thigh. The bandages had been removed this morning to reveal a crusting scab ringing his wrist, surrounded by an aureole of greenish yellow bruising. It looked like a particularly clumsy doll maker had tried to attach a jointed hand and had a few bad tries. He flexed it experimentally. _Still, not too bad. Mostly just ugly. _His left hand hadn't been so lucky.

The constriction of the handcuff had caused a severe swelling that had popped most of his stitches and cleaning it up had apparently been a messy job, so that one was still wrapped in gauze. Less gauze, but gauze nonetheless, and still supported by the tiresome sling. When he had argued for its freedom, Dr. Hannigan had only laughed. "You leave that sling alone and let your hand heal in peace. You think I want to marry a guy with only one hand?" He had laughed in spite of himself. Alone now, he touched his gauzed fingers to the scabs. The nerve endings tingled.

"Hey."

He glanced over at the door, careful to turn his head slowly. He lifted his good hand, trying it out. "Hey."

Charlie entered all the way, then stopped halfway across the room, at the end of the bed. "Two eyes, huh?"

"I guess." Don smiled a little. "I look like that old joke where somebody puts soot around an eyepiece then has you look down it."

Charlie grinned appreciatively. "Still. Compared to before."

_Oh. _He had forgotten that Charlie had seen it at its worst. "I'll take your word."

Charlie came a step closer. "It looked like that old _Rocky_ movie. I kept thinking I should find a razorblade and cut it or something."

"Yeah, well, thanks for restraining _that_ urge."

"Yeah." Charlie laughed uncomfortably. He gestured over his shoulder. "Dad's - um - with the doctor - getting your medications and instructions and all that. I'm supposed to pack your stuff."

Don flushed. "Oh, hey - don't worry about it. I'll do that."

Charlie pursed his lips and stared meaningfully at the sling before raising his brows.

Don sighed. "Okay, okay - you do it."

Charlie pulled a duffle bag out of the small wardrobe and disappeared into the bathroom with it.

Don's eyes followed him. "How're the new classes?"

"Early to tell," Charlie's voice floated back. "But so far, so good." He reappeared with a bathrobe slung over his shoulder, stuffing a shaving kit into the bag.

Don watched him roll the robe into something resembling a fold and stuff it in after the shaving kit. "How's Amita doing?"

"A little nervous, but okay. Off to a good start. You have any other clothes in here?"

"The pajamas." Don tried to keep his voice neutral. "In the drawer over there." He started to gesture with his head, remembered in time and used his hand instead. Someday his head would probably stop feeling like it weighed about two hundred pounds and housed a colony of masons, all desperate to hammer their way out.

Charlie opened the single drawer and pulled out two pairs of pajamas - no doubt, Don thought dryly, a two-for-one sale. _Waste not, want not, Dad would say. _

Charlie pushed them in after the robe, then crossed behind Don to the bedside table. The easiest way to get there, Don assured himself. It just _looked_ like Charlie was giving him a wide berth.

Charlie pulled out a hard-backed novel and a couple of magazines, then paused. "You supposed to have this?" He held up a cell phone, dangling it by the antennae.

Don shrugged. "They released it as evidence." He knew damn well that that wasn't what Charlie meant, but he didn't feel like getting into it.

Charlie looked at him for a minute, then dropped it into the bag with everything else. He glanced around the room. "Anything I missed?"

_Talk about a loaded question. _"Naw. That's it. Not like I was moving in or anything." His attempt at lightness fell flat as Charlie shot him a look from under his brows. _Well, hell. If this is how it is, the long trip home is going to be a real treat. Better just grab the bull by the horns. _"What's bugging you?"

Charlie zipped the duffle with a little more vigor than necessary. "Nothing."

"Yeah, I can see that. Maybe you can crank up the thermostat, then - it seems to have gotten kind of chilly in here."

"Ha ha." Charlie dropped the duffle bag on the floor by the door. It thudded dully against the linoleum.

The sound reverberated inside Don's skull. "Look, if you're mad about something - "

"I said I wasn't mad."

"I heard what you said. Why is it I'm not convinced?"

Charlie gave him a smile that wasn't really a smile. "I have no idea."

Don was starting to get a little irritated himself. He resisted the urge to drop his head into his hands - _okay, hand - _and beat on his temples.C'mon, what could he have possibly done to set Charlie off? Cripes, he'd been stuck in the hospital.

He winced. Okay, there was that little thing about putting Charlie's life in danger…now that he'd had some time to reflect on it, he might be a little miffed about that. He took a deep breath, felt the motion ache against his ribs. "Look, Charlie…"

"Would you stop doing that?!"

His voice was so sharp that Don froze, uncertain. He followed Charlie's gaze to his hands, noticed that he was still unconsciously rubbing at the scabs on his wrist. He tried to catch Charlie's eyes questioningly, but he had turned away, massaging the back of his neck.

"I - um - I didn't mean - " Charlie took a turn around the room, dropped down onto the edge of the bed, facing Don. For the first time since he'd entered, he was almost close enough for Don to reach out and touch. He managed an uncertain smile. "I think I liked those better covered."

Don looked down at his wrist, turning it this way and that in the light from the window. "It's doing good."

Charlie barked a short laugh.

"What?"

Charlie stood up again and took another turn about the room, idly opening and closing drawers to check for anything he'd missed. "How are your ribs?" he asked at last.

Don watched him, mystified. "Better, I guess. I mean, I won't be doing any push ups for a while…" He grinned. The smile Charlie returned was perfunctory at best.

_So, it's going to be like that, huh? Okay - in for a penny…_ "Dad says you're sleepwalking."

Charlie shoved the drawer he had his hand on back in place with something suspiciously like a slam. "I - I just happened to be…" He broke off and tried again. "I - I have a lot on my mind."

"Yeah, I can imagine. Does the trauma guy help? The shrink?"

"He's - he's fine. I mean, yeah - I guess. Things just - stick in your head sometimes. They don't just - go away - because you talk about them."

"No kidding."

Charlie frowned at Don's dry tone. "I had this idea - " his voice dropped. "This idea that - if, next time I saw you, all the - signs were gone…" He lifted his hands and let them fall. "I know how stupid that sounds."

"Naw - it doesn't." Don tugged restlessly at one ear. "I - coping is - you know - you do what you need to do." He took another deep breath, coughed before he could stop it. "Look, Charlie, I - I never meant for you to see anything like that. I don't - really blame you for being mad, but - "

"I said I wasn't mad!" The roar of his outburst seemed to startle Charlie even more than it did Don. They stared at each other in the silence that followed. After a minute, Charlie almost smiled. "Okay, so maybe I am mad…a little." He dropped down on the bed again and rested his elbows on his knees.

_Damn._ Don rubbed a hand over his mouth."Okay. So…you know…" He felt like he should apologize, but it wasn't like it was anything he'd planned. For the life of him, he couldn't think of what he might have done differently. "Maybe - maybe it would be better if you took a break from the FBI stuff for a while."

Charlie's forehead creased. "What?"

"If this stuff is - sticking in your head, maybe it would be better not to have to look at it for a while. You know - get some distance."

Charlie's frown deepened. "I don't see what you think - oh!" Charlie was on his feet again, pacing the small space, his hands in motion. "You think - ? Don, I'm not mad about - _being_ there, I'm glad I was there! Grateful, even!"

Don followed his movements, found it made him a little dizzy. "Then I don't get it."

Charlie stopped abruptly, swung around to face him. "You - call me all the time to help. _All_ the time. So why not this time…? _This_ time, when maybe I could have - could have figured out something before - before he could beat the _crap_ out of you. I mean, really, it's just dumb luck that I showed up at all and - and _totally _dumb luck that you're not - I mean, the odds, I have to tell you, are _astronomical_ - " His arms dropped and he turned away, suddenly still.

Don stared at his back, speechless. "I did call you," he said at last. "I brought you the stuff."

That seemed to set Charlie off again. He spun back and took a step toward Don that almost made him flinch.

"YOU. LEFT. OUT. DATA," he clipped. "A _lot_ of data. _Important_ data."

"Not important," Don objected.

"You don't _know_ that!" Charlie punched his finger at the air for emphasis. "_I_ don't even know that until I start working with it! I can't believe you - you - trust me with these - these critical cases, this 'save the world' stuff, but when it comes to saving _you_, well, that's another story! All bets are off!"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa…" Don held up a hand to stop the tirade. _So THAT'S what this is all about?_ "Back up. It wasn't like that."

Charlie crossed his arms. "No?" His voice dripped with doubt.

"_No_." Don kneaded the bridge of his nose where a faint throbbing had settled. How did you explain the decisions you made when you were used to having to make them at a second's notice - almost before you thought? "I was going to tell you - I started to tell you - that night, at dinner. Then Dad walked in, and - I didn't want to freak him out for nothing until I knew a little more. Then I went to that crime scene and there I was again, a real trip down memory lane, and I thought - well - my team's objectivity is shot, the FBI's is compromised in general - I sure as hell don't have any left - I thought that maybe if you could stay objective for a little longer it might help shake something loose - something we'd missed."

Charlie's expression was a shade less skeptical. "For real?"

"Yeah." Don was emphatic. "Then - that thing with - " he winced. "J.D. And I knew it really _was_ about me. I was going to tell you then."

"Hmph." Charlie returned to his seat on the bed and leaned towards him. "So why didn't you tell me when you stopped by that night? We were alone. Perfect opportunity."

_Good question. _Don pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, willing the masons to take their union mandated break. "I was - pretty freaked out," he admitted reluctantly. "Needed some space to process it."

Charlie straightened slowly. "So I'm supposed to believe that you weren't just doing some editing because it was me?"

Don sank back in his chair and closed his eyes. "I don't know, Charlie - maybe - partly. Your picture was on the other side of my High School yearbook photo and I wasn't really sure what was going on - whether the photos were meant as a - a threat or an assist, whether they involved me or somebody close to me. I have to make decisions pretty fast - there's not a lot of time to analyze how I'm making them. Some days you do better than others."

"Why didn't you take yourself off it then?"

_Right. Like that was gonna happen. Like Charlie hadn't noticed the whole control freak thing. _He opened his eyes far enough to squint at him."I was afraid the next photo was going to be that dorky one from junior high. Wanted to get to it before anybody else saw it."

"That's not funny, Don."

_Oh, come on - sure it is. Maybe not my best, but pretty funny. _"I think we gotta work on your sense of humor."

"I was just thinking the same thing about yours."

Don didn't quite stop a grin. "So, we okay? Truce?"

"I'll talk to my shrink about it."

Don groaned.

Charlie smiled. "I'd better go rescue the doctor from Dad or he'll have her cornered all day, squeezing out details."

"No need."

"Dad!" Charlie hopped to his feet like a comedy take, first backing up as if he was going to take refuge behind Don's chair, then moving forward to the end of the bed instead. "Uh - how long you been here?"

"Oh, not long." Alan left the doorway and came all the way into the room, folding his arms over his chest. "Just long enough to hear your _very_ flattering description."

"Oh, that, um -" Charlie bared his teeth in a hopeful grin. "I have to say, I did think I'd have to pry you away from Dr. Hannigan."

"And you might have." Alan's expression was a little too polite. "If one of the nurses hadn't come looking for me and asked me to come here. Seems there was a lot of…yelling? And she thought I might be needed to break it up."

"Yelling?" Charlie blinked rapidly, his face a study in thoughtful innocence.

"Mm hm." Alan was clearly not impressed. "I found it interesting, considering I was given a lecture on that very thing not so long ago. From…let me see. Why, that was you, wasn't it Charlie?"

Charlie cleared his throat. "I - uh - I don't seem to recall…"

"No?" Alan's tone was dangerously sweet.

"And - besides - " Charlie interrupted hastily. "I wasn't yelling - I was…speaking. With vigor. I spend a great deal of time lecturing, and no doubt I - used my lecture voice, which the nurse - "

Alan rolled his eyes, then looked sternly past Charlie to Don. "And you stop laughing - that can't be good for your ribs."

Don held up a helpless hand, then used it to blot his eyes. "Sorry," he gasped. "I think maybe you better drop me at my place. Being around two yellers can't be good for my concussion."

Alan snorted. "Nice try. I don't know which one of you is more full of it."

Don braced his ribs with his sling to fight down another gasp of laughter. "Yeah, well, you know what they say, Dad - like father, like sons."

Charlie looked at him approvingly. "Now _that_ - " he said with certainty, "is funny."

"Yeah, you should both take it on the road - preferably far away from me." Alan spotted the bag next to the door and hefted it in his hand. "This everything?"

Don nodded wordlessly, struggling for composure.

"Charlie." Alan tossed the bag lightly underhand and Charlie caught it. "I'll go find that nice nurse's aide with the wheelchair. You two try and behave until I get back. I don't want anybody else asking me to break up a fight between you."

"We weren't fighting!" Charlie called after him.

Don smirked. "We're in trouble," he sing-songed.

"Yeah," said Charlie glumly. "And you'll get off easy because you're damaged."

"Well, you started it."

"Nuh-uh."

"Hey, I was just sitting here admiring my scabs. You're the one who was yelling."

"I wasn't - I don't - I - " Charlie sighed. "…_might_ have raised my voice a little."

Don chuckled. _Maybe they were going to be okay after all. _He closed his eyes to enjoy the sun until his ride arrived.

"Hey, Don?"

He didn't even try to peel back his lids. "Mm?"

"Speaking of those…scabs. Something I've been wanting to ask you."

_Uh oh. _More warily, he ventured, "…yeah?"

There was a laden pause. "Why is it that, of all places, you keep your spare handcuffs in your nightstand drawer?"

Don grinned inwardly. For a moment he could have sworn that they were seventeen and twelve again. He half-opened his eyes at Charlie and gave him a slow smile. "Shut up, Charlie."

_Oh, yeah. They were going to be just fine._

_TBC_


	34. Chapter 34

_A/N: Well, this was supposed to be the last chapter before the epilogue, but it got too long, so I guess it's the second to last (penultimate, to our British friends), unless the one I'm in the middle of runs longer than I expect. _

_When I started this story, I expected to have it finished before the third season started. Now I'm finally putting it to bed after the season's ended. Guess it just goes to show that life really is what happens while you're making other plans. _

_Thank you to everyone who had the patience to stick with me all the way through it. It is definitely time to bring it to a close, so I can start on another. And Patty, you never nag. I always look forward to hearing what you have to say._

Chapter 34

This time they were all there - the faint rustle of birds and wind, the smell of grass, real, honest-to-goodness air that hadn't been pumped and filtered through a hundred systems. And even more than that - the miracle of it all - he was alone. For the time being anyway. He paged through his speed dial numbers until he found the one he wanted and hit "send". The phone trilled three times and he prepared himself for voicemail, composing a message in his head, then the phone picked up after all.

"He-ey! If it ain't the ghost of Christmas Past!"

Don grinned and slid lower in the Adirondack chair pulled close to the koi pond. "Well, ghost at least. Almost, anyway. Megan tell you everything?"

"She told me Soames had plans for our next meeting to be somewhere in the hereafter. Somewhere toasty, if I was a betting man, unless you think we actually rate a coupla harps."

"You and me? Smart money's on the other place, but looks like there's no need to pack your hot weather gear just yet."

"Yeah. Heard you came pretty close to making the trip, though. You haven't figured out how to choke that guy out _yet_?"

"Oh, nice - the only reason he came for me first was because I was easier to track down."

"Keep telling you, man - Fugitive Recovery - it can save your life."

"If you can call that a life. Besides, he was planning to flush you out with my funeral. You tryin' to tell me he would have been disappointed?"

There was a pause, and Coop's voice sounded different this time. "He said that?"

"That was the plan."

A longer pause. "They say where they took him? Cause I'd like to stop by and kick his ass."

Don laughed without any real humor. "Yeah, you and what three other guys? San Quentin, for now. California claimed jurisdiction under the circumstances." He didn't mention that he'd been calling there once a day, ever since he'd gotten his phone back, just to make absolutely sure Soames was still in custody. That was too embarrassing to admit even to a friend he'd shared as much with as Coop.

"San Q, huh? Well, it couldn't happen to a nicer guy. How bout you? Hear you had a close encounter with the wrong end of a baseball bat. How that turn out?"

Don tilted his head against the high back of the chair and squinted at the sky. "I'm okay. Doing some time of my own at my dad's - Charlie's, I guess I mean."

"Yeah? You never were any good without me there to watch your back. Maybe I can shake a few days free and come check out the damage for myself."

"Still suffering from delusions of grandeur, huh? Come on down - I'll be here for a while. I'm not much company, though - can't do jack yet. Except sleep. If they gave out Olympic golds in that, I'd have it in the bag."

"Captive audience. Sounds perfect. I'll give you a buzz and let you know for sure. Gotta thank your friend Megan for fillin' me in, too. Oh, and Don - about that - "

Don waited.

"What is it with you and workin' with the babes, anyway? Guess I know why you ditched me. How'd you get so lucky?"

Don closed his eyes and breathed a laugh. "Good karma, pal - I earned it with all the beatings I took for you."

"Me, nothing. You just never learned how to duck. With any luck, I'll see you soon."

"Look forward to it. And just to show how much I care, I won't let on to Megan that you called her a 'babe'. That's one beating I'm _not_ taking for you."

Coop's laugh rang over the line. "I'll save that message to deliver myself. Hey - and, Don?" There was a pause, and Don waited. "Stay small, right?"

"Back at ya, man." Don heard the line click off and hit "end", before letting the phone drop into his lap. _Good. _It was good to hear Coop's voice, even though he'd known Soames hadn't gotten to him. He had a couple of more calls he needed to make, but he'd take a break. He closed his eyes. _Take a break. From a couple of lousy phone calls. Sheesh_. But these past few days he'd embarrassed himself more than once by falling asleep without warning - sitting, standing, mid-sentence - didn't seem to matter. Worse was that Charlie and his Dad seemed to find it hilarious.

He reached up and ran a finger delicately along the seam of fresh scarring behind his left ear. Stitches just out, and hair was starting to grow back over it already. He was lucky - he knew guys who were still waiting for hair to grow back over old head wound scar tissue years later.

_Lucky. _He rolled the word around in his head. Charlie had said something like that. Not those words, but…something about the odds of still being here, of the series of circumstances that had been responsible for it. _Lucky. _He could live with that. Unlike Charlie, he believed in luck - counted on it some days, cursed it others, but always tried to stack the cards in his sides' favor. Luck, he found, often responded to a little push. What was that saying, _"fortune favors the brave"_?Personally, he found that fortune favored the prepared.

Ironic, actually, because prepared was exactly what he hadn't been. He flattened a hand lightly over his ribcage on one side. He had gotten a first look at that two days ago, when he had finally been allowed to shower unattended _(okay, so he couldn't help but notice that there had seemed to be an unusual amount of traffic in the hall outside the bathroom for the duration, but he gave points for effort) _and had let out a low whistle at the sight._ Impressive. _There were colors there he couldn't even name, and…he'd traced a fading boot print with one fingertip to where it blended into a round yellowish starburst with a grape-colored center…it actually still showed tread. No wonder going up the stairs was like climbing Mount Everest. He hoped Megan took good pictures.

It was hard to tell under the mottled bruises, but he thought his ribcage still looked fairly symmetrical. One eye was still ringed with darkness, but they were both open. One hand still functioned as little more than a lobster claw, but time and a little PT would take care of that. He'd fingered the green/brown blotch that discolored one cheekbone and shifted his left shoulder, stiff and achy from days of the enforced inactivity of the sling. Not pretty, of course, but…no lasting damage.

_Lucky indeed. _

Someone had told him once…Nikki, maybe? Or Kim…about a patron saint of law enforcement. The guy with the sword. St…Michael? Maybe. Maybe he owed St. Michael something. At the very least, a thanks. He swallowed a yawn. He should call in - at least see how things were going. He hadn't done that yet today.

His team had stopped by the day after he got home from the hospital to tell him it was nice to see him in clothes again and that the crime scene tape was down on his apartment. They had done a marathon cleaning and painting session with Joan Gretski's team, and they assured him that all signs of the incident were gone.

He had blinked at them, touched, but a little more overwhelmed by their combined noise and energy than he was willing to admit. "There was a big hole in the bedroom wall," he'd protested.

"David took care of that," Colby interjected. "Never know it was there."

Don raised his eyebrows at David. "I never took you for the Bob Vila type."

"Not me," David smiled. "But repairing bullet holes in apartment walls? Had a lot of experience at that growing up. I gotta warn you, though - Joan Gretski insisted on picking the paint colors."

Don groaned theatrically. "Oh, man - you guys know I got a lease, right?"

"She framed and hung one of your photos, too - as a momento," Megan had added brightly.

Don shuddered at the memory. Maybe staying here wasn't such a bad idea. Heaven only knew what awaited him at home. Still…no more bloodstains, no more bullet holes…not quite so easy to paint over his memories, but it was a start. Looked like he owed his team and Gretski's some kind of thanks, too. The list for that was looking pretty long.

He was almost asleep again when he became aware of…something…behind him and to his left. His mouth turned up faintly at the corners and he didn't even bother to open his eyes. "You know, I think I've got enough to bring charges for stalking at this point."

"Not sure you can make that stick since I'm legitimately on the premises. I was hoping you were asleep."

"Why? You haven't had a laugh yet today?"

"There's always room for another good laugh."

He heard the muted thud of a glass on the broad chair arm and held out a hand automatically. Two small cylinders rolled into his palm and he tossed them back and dry swallowed them without looking.

"That's disgusting. At least have some of the juice. Or those things will burn a hole in your stomach."

Don obediently opened his eyes and picked up the glass, draining half of it. "Thanks," he said when he put it down again.

"No problem. What are you doing out here all alone?"

Don gave his father a sideways glance, trying to remember if his cell phone was in full view or not. "Feeding the koi."

"I see." He heard another chair drag across the grass until it was next to his. "You know what really helps with that? Bringing the koi food."

"Yeah, well, I thought about it…" He managed to disguise another yawn. "Until I tried lifting the bucket. Then I decided all that screaming would probably scare the koi and ruin my tough guy image forever."

"I would have carried it out for you. All you had to do was ask."

"You were busy. I'm trying something more metaphysical - I'm imagining the koi as _already_ full - that their feeding took place earlier on simultaneous, parallel planes. Larry would love it."

"The koi, on the other hand, I suspect, do not. Being less well-versed in theoretical physics and all."

"Less well versed in theoretical physics than me? Hard to believe." It had been his intention, as long as he was mooching his days here at the old homestead, to take care of some little chores around the house, like feeding the koi. So far, his efforts had fallen short, at best - unless you counted leaving imprints on most of the furniture. He brushed his fingers over the ridges under his shirt again, biting his lip against the wasp-like stings of pain that followed their progress. Ribs were so darned slow to heal, and affected so many things - lifting your arms. Lifting your legs. Walking, getting up, lying down.

"Do you want to come inside? Or should I get you the koi food so you can feed them on _this_ dimensional plane?"

Don shook his head. "Feel like I've been cooped up forever. It's nice out here."

"I was just thinking that it was getting a little cold. Wouldn't you like a jacket?"

Don hid a smile. "Wow. You brought me my medication, but no jacket? We really _must_ be on a different dimensional plane."

A huddle of black fabric landed abruptly in his lap. "There you go, smart guy. Need help getting it on?"

"Naw. I'm good." That was a dead-on lie, of course. A lot of tricky arm lifting and maneuvering and shifting went into sliding into a jacket - it felt just a little better than Chinese water torture these days. He spread the jacket out over his lap instead. _Good enough._

"Asking for help isn't against the law, you know - it won't actually kill you."

"That just a theory, or you got any real proof of that?"

"Not funny, Donnie."

Don let his head drop against the chair back just a little too hard and winced in response. "You and Charlie. Really need to lighten up."

"Or maybe you need to take a few things more seriously."

Don glanced over at him, then picked at the zipper of his jacket. "I'm not always wrong, you know. You guys just have me outnumbered." He'd meant it as a light remark, but he could tell from his father's face that that wasn't the way it had come out. _Rats. _He looked back at the zipper, smoothing it flat. _Okay - come on - do the lecture thing and get it over with. _

"I brought you something else."

Don glanced at him again, curious. He had no idea what to make of his expression.

Alan held out a large, flat book. "I've been going through your mother's old albums since you stopped by that day - looking to see if there were any others you should have. I found this."

Don took it wordlessly, studying the cover. "I don't recognize it - have I ever seen this one?"

"I don't know - maybe not. She was still working on it when she died."

He opened the cover to the front page. Pasted inside was an old photo of his graduating class at Quantico. He closed the cover, frowning, and turned it over to study the spine. It had his name on it, and the date he'd been accepted at the FBI Academy. The other date was open-ended. He opened it again, fanning the pages to glance through. Newspaper clippings, some of the photos he'd sent home, some of his commendations…"She kept an album on my FBI time?"

"Looks like. I can't say I've ever seen it before. Maybe I just wasn't paying attention."

"How did she - ? I mean, I know how you felt. How did she feel about my job with the FBI?"

He was a little surprised to find that he'd actually asked it out loud. That question had been lurking in the back of his mind ever since they'd gone back through his old baseball album - and maybe for years before that.

He'd almost asked Charlie about it once or twice, but always stopped himself in time. Not really fair. If she hadn't been happy about it, Charlie would either blurt that out and then feel bad, or tell some pathetically transparent, uncomfortable lie which would leave them _both_ feeling bad.

He sensed his father's eyes still on him and shifted, glanced up warily. Still that look he couldn't read.

After a minute, Alan dropped his eyes and clapped Don briskly on the knee. He pointed to the album. "Why don't you let her tell you herself? I'll leave you alone with it."

Don watched him stand, grasping the album awkwardly between his palms.

Alan scooped the jacket from Don's lap and held it by the shoulders. "Can you lean forward?"

_Big question. Leaning was risky business at best. _He hugged the album against his chest and clutched the arm of the chair with his better hand, clenched his jaw and leaned. He felt the jacket settle around his shoulders, followed by a quick squeeze.

"I'll be inside if you need me."

_TBC_


	35. Chapter 35

_A/N: Well, I was worried when I split the last chapter as a separate part that this one would be too short, but it turned out just the opposite. First I thought it would just be a little long, but then it got longer and longer and I realized it really needed to be split into two. So one more chapter after this before the epilogue, though it is really a continuation of this chapter. The good news is that the next chapter is done. _

_These two chapters deal with Don's past, and while I have tried very hard not to embroider, I have had to make some guesses and assumptions in order to write it. What do we know? That Don worked in Fugitive Recovery (see _Man Hunt_ - probably his first assignment out of the Academy), that he taught at the FBI in Academy right after that (see _Longshot - _we don't know for how long, but FBI training is seventeen weeks), that he was in Albuquerque when his mother got sick, just before he transferred to LA (see _the Pilot_). We know he lived with Kim in Albuquerque, that she worked for him there and that he and gave her a ring, which she mailed back (see _Counterfeit Reality_), and that he ran his own office at some point (see _the Pilot_). I feel very comfortable assuming this was Albuquerque, since Don was only about 35 in the first season and that was his last assignment before LA. I'm guessing he either worked his way up through the ranks in Albuquerque, or else there is some assignment in between that we have yet to learn about. Hopefully, we'll find out some day. In the meantime, this is the best I can do. _

Chapter 35

Terry Lake - down front, because she was so short. Old Jericho, standing in the back, because he was so tall. Brian Cavin _- God, remember him? We had wicked fun - an unholy combination, vowed to stay in touch forever_. Brian had been killed in the line of duty just two years after they graduated. Seeing his face made him miss him all over again.

His mother had drawn a little arrow pointing to his picture: second row, third from the left. Yup, that was him all right - all teeth. He looked so young. They all looked so young. Had it really been that long?

He stared at the blur of navy blue FBI polo shirts. How many of them were still in the FBI twelve years later? How many of them were still alive?

Did you worry, Mom, that I might end up like Brian? But I'm still here. You're the one who died. _Which just goes to show…something. Something ironic. That escapes me just this minute_. He crossed his arms over the cover of the book and held it splayed open against his chest. _Maybe I'm not ready for this. Maybe I need a beer_. His eyes strayed to the half empty glass of juice at his elbow. _But, of course, I'm on the wagon. Oh, well - not being ready has never stopped me before. _

He tilted the book away from his chest and peered at the next page. That's right - he'd won a couple of awards. How was it for a mother to hear that her son was _Marksman, Best in Class/Category, Handguns_? Wasn't quite like discovering the _Eppes Convergence_. But at least she'd known he could protect himself.

Too bad you couldn't shoot cancer; then he could have protected her, too.

He turned the page and it sparked a grin. Him and Coop, that time they'd stopped by Pasadena on their way back in. Man, they looked like a pair of reprobates. No wonder his Dad had asked if they were allowed razors on fugitive duty. Always hard to explain how the time melted away on the road: no time to think when you were on the trail and nothing to do but when you were on stake out. You lived, breathed and ate the hunt - kept your focus or lost your life. The old joke was that, fresh in from that particular field job, you were barely human. Or maybe it wasn't a joke. Truth was, it did sort of make you forget polite society - like coming in from the wilderness. Really wreaked havoc with your people skills. He stared at the picture a little longer. Mom had taken this one. He'd have to show it to Coop if he stopped by - he'd love it.

On the road together, they'd been closer than a lot of couples - spent more time together, too. He hadn't thought about it a lot himself - his mind was usually occupied with the puzzle of how to get in this one's head, to flush that one out, to corner that other one. He'd been good at it, too. Damn good. The mental puzzle had jazzed him up and the physical exertion had let off steam. A lot like baseball. And like baseball, he could actually remember the moment when he had decided that it wasn't for him any more.

They'd been hanging out in the cemetery, waiting for a murderer who Don was convinced would come, when Coop had said jokingly, "So, whattya think? If we keep on like this for enough years does that count as common law marriage?"

It had been funny and he had laughed. It wasn't until much later, their felon bagged and delivered, that he found the words keeping him awake. Okay, it had been a joke - he knew that. But…what the heck was he doing? He loved Coop, but did he really want him to be the most intimate relationship in his life? When was the last time he had dated, anyway? Or even noticed a woman as more than a lead to a perp? For that matter, when was the last time he had eaten a meal sitting at a table, read a book, had a conversation that didn't include the words, "So you come around the front and I'll…"?

Worse, getting into these guys' heads was starting to creep him out. What if one day he couldn't find his way out again? Was this really what he wanted his future to be? That had kept him awake more than a few nights, so, on top of it all, he had started to lose his edge. Finally, he had got up the nerve to tell Coop that he was breaking up the team. It had felt a lot like a divorce.

He told Madden he wanted a transfer as soon as they went in for their next assignment. Madden had looked at him for a long time, then reached inside his desk and pulled out a clutch of papers. "You guys make a good team," he'd said thoughtfully.

They did. How could he explain that it wasn't enough?

"But fugitive detail can be a burnout job." Madden pushed the papers across the desk. "The Academy is looking for someone to teach Tactics to the next couple of new classes of recruits. You got high marks in that as a student and I'm betting you've picked up some new tricks on the road. Why don't you try it while you decide what you'd like to do next?"

Don had stared at the papers, surprised, then jerked a nod. That would be good. Give him some time to clear his head. He'd smiled slightly. _A teacher, huh? Wouldn't Charlie get a laugh out of that? _

They'd shaken hands and Don had taken the forms with him. He was at the door when Madden's voice stopped him. "You're good at this, Eppes. And you and Cooper are a good fit. But I know that's not enough - the job has to be a good fit, too. Still, if you ever change your mind, you've always got a place here."

_Good. _It was nice to know that he always had a place somewhere. He had filled out the forms, sent them in, and agreed to show up at the Academy only a couple of weeks later. But first, he caught a plane to LAX. Time to check back in at home, too. Someplace else he was hoping he'd always have a place.

He'd taken a cab from the airport: mostly to keep them from having to make the grueling trip in traffic, but partly because he wanted to see the house again alone for the first time. The cab pulled up out front and he saw the old Craftsman, beautiful and serene, just as he remembered it. Just for a second, his vision blurred.

They must have been watching for him, because he'd only made it a couple of steps up the drive when the door had burst open and his mother ran out. She threw her arms around him and for a minute, overbalanced by the weight of his duffle bag, he was sure they were going to end in a heap on the driveway, but he felt the bag lifted from his hand and managed to get his face free of his mother's hair long enough to see his father standing right behind her, looking more subdued, but pleased.

Mom had pulled back to study him. "You look tired," she decided, running a hand down his cheek. "And so thin. Don't they feed you on Fugitive Recovery?"

He'd laughed, slipping his arm around her waist to lead her back to the house. "Trust me - we eat. Coop never met a meal he didn't like. It's just - you know - hectic." He saw his father's lips tighten with disapproval but pretended not to notice.

He stared at the next photo in the book, taken on that same trip home. He _did_ look tired, and not just physically. He actually looked a little lost, staring out at the koi pond, almost, ironically, in the exact same position as today.

He let the album lie open across his lap and gazed down at the flashes of movement in the small pond. He wondered if the koi ever got tired of listening to his troubles. He hoped not - they had proved to be pretty good company over the years - for a bunch of fish. Not much for conversation, of course, but that wasn't always a bad thing. Half the time conversation didn't get you anywhere anyway. He and Dad had had some pretty fruitless conversations on that visit, as he recalled.

Mom had pulled him into the house and straight through to the kitchen. "Lasagna's almost ready - and I have steaks for tomorrow - I thought we could grill. Maybe have some of the neighbors over - they'd love to see you…you must be starved…would you like anything to drink? I made iced tea…"

Don inhaled deeply, snitching a slice of tomato topped with mozzarella and basil from a platter and biting into it. Why was it that everything smelled and tasted better at home?

She had given him an exasperated look that was so familiar that he had laughed before he could stop himself. "I know I taught you better manners than that," she'd grumbled, her face oddly pleased. "How bout that tea?"

"For heaven's sake, give him a beer, Margaret," his father had piped up unexpectedly. "He's not twelve."

Mom had looked startled, then stared at him as though seeing him for the first time. "Of course he's not," she said quietly, rubbing his arm as she passed him on the way to the refrigerator. He couldn't figure out why she looked so sad.

"So, this teaching thing - that sounds like a good job."

He had accepted a beer from his father and taken a swallow. "I guess so - for now. It's only temporary. I'm a guest teacher."

"Still. There must be teachers who are permanent, right?"

"Yeah. Sure." He'd tried to swallow down a faint annoyance with the beer. "Older guys, guys who can no longer work in the field due to age or injury - it's like coaching, you know? They can't play anymore, but they can share their expertise. I haven't got a whole lot of expertise to share yet."

"Somebody must think you do, or they wouldn't have offered you the job."

"A lot of agents do it between things. It's temporary. Until - until something else opens up." _Saying 'until I get my head together' would not make this conversation any shorter._ "I'm a field agent, Dad - I'm not ready to be benched yet."

"There's a lot to be said for teaching. It can be very rewarding."

_Right. Teaching. _"I'm not Charlie, Dad."

"Alan." Mom's voice had been quiet, but brooked no argument. "Could you set the table for me, please?"

_Great. Not home an hour and things were already tense. _"I'm - going to say hi to the koi."

He had spent a lot of time with the koi on that trip.

He looked back at the photo of himself and the koi pond, then at the two photos on the facing page. _Oh, yeah. _He had almost forgotten about those. He found himself smiling.

"That's not what I meant. I just think you'd be good at it, that's all." Dad had followed him out, handed him a slice of garlic toast, hot from the oven. "You shouldn't drink without something in your stomach."

Don had accepted the toast, scooted over to make room for him on the bench. He felt his father's weight settle next to him.

"Don't burn your mouth."

He tried not to roll his eyes. _Once a parent, always a parent._ "Based on what? I never taught anybody anything in my life."

"Sure you have - Charlie. Taught him how to ride a bike, how to catch a ball. You were good at it."

He'd snorted around his bite of garlic toast. "Doesn't take a genius to do that." _Whoops. Bad choice of words._

His father had stretched an arm along the back of the bench, almost, but not quite, touching him. "It doesn't take a genius to do a lot of things, Donnie," he said quietly.

_Donnie._ A sure sign that they were okay. He settled back into the bench and relaxed. "Speaking of geniuses…" he licked garlic butter off his fingers. "…how's Charlie doing across the pond?"

"Okay, you two - let's have a picture!"

They exchanged an amused glance at the inevitable camera that appeared in front of them. "Pretty good, it seems. Likes Cambridge. He's living with a girlfriend."

"Yeah?"

"Smile, now!"

"Yeah." Dad elbowed him. "Older woman."

Don quirked his brows. "Go, Chuck."

The camera clicked.

Don stared down at the photo. They were both smiling. Dad looked younger, too. He'd definitely aged since Mom's illness and death. He looked at the photo underneath it - him and Mom this time, courtesy of Dad manning the camera. He held the book closer, trying to remember that outfit she'd been wearing, how she'd sounded, how she'd smelled. She looked so young and healthy.

"Now get in the house before my lasagna burns, or you're eating take out."

"I like take out," he'd protested. "I eat it all the time."

"All the more reason why you're not eating it here." She took his arm.

"Dad says Charlie's living with a girlfriend."

"Oh." She made a face. "Apparently. I hope he knows what he's doing."

"Let's see…he's aces at geometry…physics…pretty good at chemistry…I'd say he's got all the bases covered." He winked at his Dad. "And besides - that's something else it doesn't take a genius to do."

His mother was not amused. "I just hope he's ready."

"Mom, he's over twenty-one - believe me, he's more than ready."

He'd expected a sarcastic rejoinder, so he'd been startled when she slid her arms around his waist and hugged him instead. "I'm glad you're home," she whispered.

"Yeah," he agreed, hugging her back. "Me too."

"Donnie," she held him back as Alan proceeded them into the house, tugging on his arm until her lips were close to his ear."…he doesn't mean it like it sounds."

_Yeah, right. Whatever. _"Okay."

She'd taken his face in her hands and turned it until he looked directly at her. "He worries. He just doesn't know how to say that."

_Oh. _He'd sighed. "Mom - there's nothing to worry about. Really. I can take care of myself."

She'd smoothed the hair over his ear and cupped his cheek, studying his face as if she were memorizing it. "Okay."

He leaned his head back, watching the clouds scuttle across the sky. He wished now that he'd had the forethought to memorize hers.

She had done that a lot that trip - hugged him, touched him, more than usual - almost as if she thought it might be…he groaned aloud at the sudden realization…_the last time._ Was that what she was worried about?

Not for herself - for him.

He rubbed his eyes and glared at the koi. "You could have clued me in," he grumbled.

_TBC_

_PS: 3__rd__ gal, I always think of you when I finish and Alan/Don scene. But they do all the talking, I just type._


	36. Chapter 36

_A/N: Thanks to everyone who said they'll be sorry to see the story end. Hard to believe, it's been going on so long, but I really appreciate it. I'll miss it too. Stories junket around in your head for so long that they become constant companions, and I always feel the loss when I close them, but stories are like children - no matter how much you love them, there comes the day when they need to leave the nest and stand on their own. Epilogue after this, and while it's got a lot of pages already, it's hard to know how long it will actually be in the end. Stay tuned._

_Remember this scene is a continuation of the last one - really the second half, still in the same time._

Chapter 36

The next two-page spread was a series of photos of the barbecue, with himself now clean-shaven and hair trimmed, civilized and presentable. He peered closely at pictures of the neighbors - some of them were gone now, too. _See, Mom? It happens to everybody - not just people in my job. It happened to you. _Somehow, that seemed like some sort of sick and bitter joke - that she had been worried about losing him, and just the opposite had happened.

The next photo was Quantico again, but this time he stood with the instructors, to the side of the class, another carefully drawn arrow pointing to his head.

Surprisingly enough, he _had_ liked teaching, and it really hadn't been all that different from teaching Charlie to ride a bike. It had felt a little funny to be addressed as "Special Agent" by students not all that much younger than he was, though, and he had wondered if this was how Charlie felt. But it was nice to be among people again. He was a social animal by nature, hadn't realized how much he had missed human interaction. And dating. He'd started dating again - other instructors, of course, not students, both from the FBI and the nearby DEA Academy, casually changing partners, making up for lost time.

He looked back at the photo. Two photos, actually, since he had done two seventeen week stints before the email had come from Madden, attaching a copy of an opening in Albuquerque and saying he'd be happy to recommend him if he was interested?

He'd looked the job over and done a little research on New Mexico. Not too far from California, but not too close either - warm and dry climate. California born and bred, he'd had enough of chilly-wet Virginia winters. As far as he was concerned, snow belonged in the mountains, within handy driving distance if you wanted to ski, but no closer than that. So he updated his resume and sent it along with Madden's recommend and one from the Academy. One month later, he was flying out for an interview. Two weeks after that, he was packing his bags.

He'd loved New Mexico - secretly thought that "Land of Enchantment" was the perfect name for it, loved the exotic blend of Mexican, Indian and Gringo cultures: flamenco music mixing with jazz, the stark desert landscape mixing with sudden flashes of color, hot red chili peppers mixing with almost everything. The climate was perfect for outdoor activities, he found he liked working as part of a larger team and…well. Still more dating. He turned into a dating machine. He had missed the company of women more than he could have imagined - felt like a man finally released from a two year fast.

He made a face. Now he wished he hadn't let it go to his head. If he hadn't, he might have realized sooner that what was just fun for him, was a whole lot more for Nikki Davis. Her hurt had sobered him up like a quick dunk in cold water. He had gone much slower after that.

He smoothed a hand over the next photo - a beautiful shot of the Balloon Festival, the wide-open blue sky dotted with a sea of multi-colored silks. Man, he missed that. He should travel down for the next one - eat some chilies, listen to a little flamenco. He noticed where his hand had landed, covering part of the photo, peeled it away and studied the smiling images underneath. He had taken things much slower, because by then he had met…Kim.

His fingers lingered on the edges of the book covers, toying with slamming them shut. It was certainly what he had done in his head. Well, tried to. Seeing Kim again a couple of years ago had shown him that he wasn't really over that one yet - not by a long shot.

Instead of slamming the book, he turned the page slowly. There they were, in a cantina. At a ballgame. At an awards ceremony. How many of these photos had he sent home, anyway? _Guess I kinda tipped my hand on that one, huh, Mom? And I thought I was playing it so cool._

He had been promoted to team leader by then, and Kim was part of his team. Among other things. He smiled at the memory. They had tried to keep it quiet, but LEOs were notorious gossips, so when they suddenly had the same address, no one seemed particularly surprised. Except, maybe, for him. It had seemed so permanent - so - grown up.

He had loved waking up next to her in the morning, loved the scent of lotion and flowers and something indefinable that she left on the sheets, the way she would roll over next to him in her sleep and fit herself under his chin. It used to make him smile, even half-asleep. You were a great partner, Coop, he'd muse, but this is more what I had in mind - someone to wake up to, someone to come home to, someone to share your life with - not just your job and a couple of beers.

He turned the page. An article from the FBI website - how the heck had she found that? About his appointment as SAC. Just past it a number of other articles, from websites and newspapers - some he'd never even heard of - detailing cases solved by the Albuquerque FBI office. A tight band squeezed at his heart. _Keeping tabs on me, Mom? _He looked from one article to the next to the next. How much work did this represent on her part? Seemed like a whole lot.

He remembered getting the appointment to SAC. He'd been thrilled and terrified at the same time, but as long as he was free-falling, he'd decided to take another risk…and proposed to Kim two days later. She accepted. He was walking on air.

He'd thrived as SAC, despite missing the action and adrenaline rush of the field. He had leadership and organizational skills he'd only been half aware of, was fascinated to discover new, less physical talents he'd never suspected existed inside him at all. Life seemed magical for that time in the Land of Enchantment - one joy and triumph following another. He really thought he'd found a place to land and make his mark at last.

All it had taken was one phone call to make the floor drop out.

The photos and articles ended there, the rest of the pages empty. He closed the book gently and held it in his lap, noticed the light in the sky had changed, shadows lengthening across the grass, turning the waters of the koi pond murky.

_Life is fragile. So is happiness. _He couldn't believe he had let himself forget that, had let himself be lulled into a false sense of security. That day he'd made a promise to himself never to let it happen again.

He'd tried long weekends in LA at first, but the hectic schedule with all those hours logged on the red-eye was brutal, and it was hard to run an office from a distance. Even harder, it seemed, to run a relationship that way. He and Kim suddenly spent their scant time together fighting or sleeping. She no longer rolled over in her sleep and tucked herself under his chin - their two sides of the bed now seemed as far apart as…well, as far apart as Albuquerque and LA. And no matter which place he was, he always felt badly about not being in the other place, felt like he was always letting somebody down, his heart endlessly rent.

Gradually, it became increasingly clear that Mom was on borrowed time, not recovering, and while no one could be sure how _much_ time, the thought that she might say her last good byes while he was in Albuquerque or hanging in Limbo on some flight between Albuquerque and LA was more than he could bear. With a heavy heart, he started looking into the possibility of a transfer to the LA office.

Once started, he did what he always did - moved forward without looking back. He couldn't afford to spend any time thinking about the loss of all he'd built and accomplished - he accepted a job as an LA team leader and refused to think of it as a step backward. After all, LA was the third largest office in the country - that came with its own cachet. He would learn to like it back there - he would make himself. Enchantment just wasn't in the cards for some people evidently.

Tentatively, he had invited Kim to come with him, but she had pointed out that she was just starting to make her mark and that it would be harder for her to replace her position. Numbly, he had nodded that he understood. He did, really - he'd known he was choosing a career girl. She shouldn't have to give up everything too, just because it would be nice for him to have her by his side.

They agreed to regular visits back and forth, but somehow that had never actually happened. Probably that should have been a hint, but he'd had other things on his mind at the time. His mother was dying. No matter how many times he told himself that, no matter how many times he saw her, frail and faded and breathing through a tube in her nose, he still had trouble believing it. His redoubtable mother: surely she would find a way to outsmart this, too - surely this would end with her laughing at them all for ever thinking otherwise. He clung to that in the fog of the months that followed.

He dumped his boxes from Albuquerque in the basement, out of the way, and moved back into his old room, met and organized his new team. The one bright spot was Terry Lake - his old student buddy from Quantico days - a welcome surprise addition to his team. Something about her calm, warm presence kept him sane, even on days when there were too many tragedies to be solved and not enough leads to solve them, when his phone calls to Kim went unanswered, when he couldn't seem to take a breath without the lingering smell of illness in his nostrils.

He found one of his mother's old sweaters in the closet in his room and he secretly clung to it, just so he could remember what she really smelled like. What she would smell like again, if he had anything to say about. Of course, he had been kidding himself - seemed to do a lot of that those days. His mother entered palliative care, and he requested a leave of absence.

_Mom is going to die. _The words had no meaning. Maybe that's why nobody said them, why they just hung in the air, misty and unreal, haunting them. He was still trying to convince himself of that, still trying to make it seem real, when he received the letter from Kim.

He'd known, he supposed, what it was right away, from the small, hard lump pushing against one corner of the envelope. But he read it over anyway, and then again, trying to make THAT seem real now. He still couldn't remember the actual words, just how they'd made him feel. Something about it being better this way (better for who?), and about how it would never work (hadn't it been working?) and about a Secret Service job she'd accepted in Washington. He had stared at the letter for a long time, twirling the small ring nervously around and around the tip of his finger (maybe a better ring…?) as though if he looked long enough, it would come to mean something different (maybe he could still try?).

He thought about telling someone about it - about asking what he had done wrong - if he should go after her? But who could he tell? His father was almost paralyzed with grief, and it would be cruel to drag him from his mother's side, even for a short time, at this point. Charlie was locked in the garage, deeply involved with some unsolvable equation, and no amount of coaxing, arguing or reasoning had made him so much as turn around. Don had worried at first how Charlie would feel if their mother died while he was still shut away, before he had a chance to say good-bye, but eventually he'd given it up. There were too many other places he needed to be - too many things that needed his attention. So he'd thrown the envelope, ring still inside, into one of the boxes in the basement and got busy with things. Before the week was out, his mother had slipped from his life as well.

For the next few days - he couldn't actually remember how many - he'd signed things, organized things, answered questions, made phone calls - things he knew how to do, was good at, could take refuge in - his own version of Charlie's garage, maybe. To anyone watching, he probably seemed like a conscious, living being, calm and in control, but he knew better. He was hollow, empty, an echo chamber. Look out, dead man walking.

At one point Dad roused enough to ask if they shouldn't ready some room for Kim before she came for the funeral? After all, his childhood room might be very well for him, but it wasn't really suitable for a lady. He had answered, in a surprisingly steady voice, that Kim would not be able to make the funeral. Dad had frowned and looked like he wanted to ask something, then thought better of it.

At the funeral, Charlie stood bewildered on one side of their father, while Don stood on the other, silent and dry-eyed. People assured him over and over that it was okay to cry, but they were wrong - wrong about it even today. The two most important women in his life were gone forever, just like that, leaving him crushed and lost and broken. If he started crying about it now, he might never stop.

He'd started looking for an apartment instead, found a small but promising one in a nice neighborhood. His father had ventured to ask again if Kim shouldn't get a look too before he signed the two-year lease? He had answered, very offhandedly he thought, that Kim would not be coming to LA. Dad had looked at him for a long time, then let the subject drop. They had never brought it up again.

Don closed his eyes against the glare of the low-hanging fireball the sun made in the sky. _Probably…he thinks that I'm the one who broke it off. That I just couldn't do the commitment thing. Well, just as well. _

'_I always understood about your mother'_…Kim had said that when they'd worked together on the counterfeiting case, as if she wanted to dig the whole thing up and rehash it all over again, right there in his office.

_Sure. Great. Whatever. _He hadn't allowed her to finish…didn't wait for what he assumed would be the inevitable rejoinder - that his mother wasn't the problem - _he_ was. That he had been measured again and found wanting - okay for the short spin, just not good enough for the long haul. True or not, he didn't need to hear it. Really, denial was highly underrated.

It had seemed to set something in motion - a pattern of women leaving him…next Terry Lake, then Robin Brooks. Giving away his heart was apparently a bad policy - left him with nothing but a gaping cavity in the center of his chest. But just as long as he understood the rules, he could plan accordingly - he would be okay. _Women leave you_. See? He could be taught.

The familiar tongue click sounded at the back of his brain. He smiled a tiny smile despite himself.

"Or maybe…" he conceded aloud, "I just have really bad taste in women."

The tongue click came again, louder this time, and he smiled more broadly, not sure he hadn't been angling for that one.

Because he was wrong. He knew it, really. He had lost Kim, true, and Nikki and Terry and Robin and God only knew how many future others, but he would never, ever lose his mother. She had just moved on to one of Larry's other dimensional planes - a parallel one - never really far away from him. If he was quiet and concentrated, he could always sense her there.

_Okay, Mom. Maybe it has nothing to do with my taste in women. Maybe… you're just a really tough act to follow._

And for a moment he was sure - _sure_ - that that was her familiar scent carried on the early evening air…not the sick scent that had clung to her in her last months, but her real scent - the one captured in the old sweater he had secreted. He kept his eyes closed and willed it to stay with him.

"Hey."

He had no idea how long he had been sitting there with his eyes closed - possibly, he had even drifted off to sleep again.

"What are you doing out here all by yourself?"

_What, did Charlie and Dad practice this shtick? If not, then they had been living together WAY too long. _He squinted one eye open, noticed that pink was beginning to streak the sky. "Who says I'm alone?" He could just follow a Charlie-shaped blur as it dropped into the chair Dad had abandoned.

"Well, yeah, the koi…they don't count."

_Sure they do. Of course they do. _He noticed the bucket of koi food Charlie set down between the chairs.

Charlie followed his eyes. "Dad figured the koi would be hungry by now."

For a moment he toyed with the idea of suggesting that he'd had company other than the koi - get Charlie all outraged and going on one of his lectures - that could be pretty entertaining. But after some reflection, he decided he didn't really have the energy for it. Besides…he wasn't ready for anybody to tell him that it had all been his imagination.

"Here." A plate of cookies waved under his nose. "He figured you'd be hungry too. He's been very strong, restraining himself from running out here with a sandwich because he didn't want to disturb you. So let him off the hook and at least have a cookie. Mrs. Nussbaum made them."

_Of course she did. _Don obediently reached for a cookie. "Maybe the old proverb's wrong - maybe the way to a man's heart isn't really through his stomach."

"Maybe." Charlie bit into a cookie of his own. "But I think she's hoping the way to this man's heart is through his _sons'_ stomachs, since activity has really kicked up since you've been staying here. Either that, or she actually has a crush on _you_."

Don choked on his cookie, spraying crumbs. Charlie obligingly patted him on the back until he could breathe again. "Give me a break!" he managed when he could speak. "I'm trying to eat here!"

Charlie grinned. "So what _are_ you doing out here? It's getting dark."

"Nothing, just - I was looking at this old album. One of Mom's - Dad found it."

Charlie took it from him, flipped through the first few pages in the fading light, nodding. "Oh, yeah. I remember this one."

Don tried to catch a glimpse of his face in the gloom. "You do?"

"Sure. She was working on it when I started teaching at CalSci. We'd sit at the dining room table together sometimes, her working on the album, me working on my lesson plans."

"No kidding." Don tried to picture that, found he liked the image. "I don't know where she got a lot of the stuff in there - I sure didn't send it to her."

Charlie shrugged. "Well, you know Mom-the-lawyer - brilliant at research, lots of connections."

"Yeah." Yeah, he did know that. He just hadn't expected her to…he made a face. He didn't mean _'to bother'_, exactly…it was just - a new idea, that was all.

"She'd read the stuff out loud sometimes. She always sounded so proud."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I think I was a little jealous."

That stopped him. Charlie, jealous of him. They really must have wandered onto a different dimensional plane. "Charlie - " he began. "You must know - I mean, she bragged about you, like, _constantly_ - "

"I know, I know. It's just - this was - different, I don't know."

"Always is, I guess."

"I guess." Charlie offered him another cookie, took one for himself. "I was her - her wunderkind, I guess - I know that. But you were like her…Donnie. Her big, brave hero. Sounded like something I'd rather be sometimes."

Don remained silent, biting off the edge of his cookie. _Huh. _So why had he never known that? Funny how sometimes you couldn't see what was right in front of you.

"Hey! I sent you out there to feed the koi, not fill up on cookies! Better get in this house before my lasagna burns or you'll be stuck eating take out!"

Don jerked upright and a bite of cookie went down the wrong way.

"Whoa!" He felt Charlie's fist pound between his shoulder blades. "Hey, take a breath! You okay?"

Don coughed again to clear his throat, pressed his hands over his face, was stunned when they came away streaked with dampness. _It was the coughing _- his eyes were watering from coughing. "I'm fine," he croaked, holding himself very still and peering surreptitiously into the gathering dusk.

"Yeah?" There was a slightly anxious note in Charlie's voice and his head bent close, bobbing in the darkness. "Then let's feed the koi and go eat ourselves, okay?"

"Yeah." Don eased himself carefully to his feet, still hunting among the shadows for…? He wasn't quite sure what. "Don't want to get stuck with take out." _Oh, God._

He dragged his eyes reluctantly from that indistinct landscape, where earth and sky blended together in the twilight, half-expecting to see a camera flash among the trees. The air was still, except for the chirpings of the night creatures. _Nothing there_. _And yet_…He pulled in a breath, let it out in a soft, slow whoosh, accepted a scoop of koi food from Charlie.

"You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah." He sprinkled the koi food on the water, just barely aware of the bright movements to the water's surface, his eyes lingering on the trees. "Just hungry, is all." He dropped the scoop in the bucket, turned to stare at the yellow squares of light that marked the house. "Let's go. I've got a yen for some homemade lasagna."

_TBC_


	37. Chapter 37

_A/N: Yeah, the Epilogue did turn into two parts, and that's what's taking me so long. Don't blame me, blame Don and Charlie - they just talk, talk talk. Anyway, my LTB (Long-Time Beta) vouched this part as ready for human consumption, so here it is._

_Many thanks to everyone for your patience. I have sometimes thought that this should have been broken into a number of stories instead, but in my brain all the pieces hung together as a whole, so here you are. And for those who asked if there would be another when this one was done - heck, yeah!_

Epilogue: Part 1

"Easy, easy - c'mon - no need to choke it to death. The gun is your friend - what's it ever done to you?" He stood behind Charlie and put his hands over his, gently loosening his grip. "You're going to be exhausted before you get two shots off if you hold it like that - not to mention how it will throw off your aim. Yeah - that's better. Try again."

"You said to hold it firmly."

"Firmly - not white knuckles. This gun has really nice, light action - you don't have to work so hard, just let it do what it does."

Charlie eyed the gun in his hands. "It's not very - glamorous, is it? I mean, not like some others."

"Hey!" Don looked indignant, giving the handgun a loving glance. "That's a great gun! Light as a feather, practically no creep…look down those sights, isn't that…?" He broke off, frowning. "What?"

"Nothing." Charlie didn't even try to hide his grin, obediently squinting down the sights. "I'm just trying to think of the last time I heard you speak that enthusiastically about a woman."

"Some woman ever saves my neck as many times as this gun has and I'll rhapsodize too - not to mention how many other lives. It deserves a little respect. Keep both eyes open when you're sighting or it will mess up your depth perception."

Charlie made a face. "I liked the rifle scope better."

"That's for distance. When some guy with a gun is right in your face, you're happy to have something nice and maneuverable like this. Go on - both eyes."

"Like a microscope?"

Don shrugged. "Okay. Adjust your stance a little. Remember, the right arm is aiming - the left is just bracing."

The pistol gave a sharp crack, nose jerking in the air. Charlie peeled his eyes open and scowled at it. "It's not supposed to do that." His scowl turned to consternation as he looked across the course. "I think I killed a pedestrian."

"Don't worry - these pedestrians get up to die another day. You're closing your eyes again."

"It's _instinct_."

"Now you're thinking too much."

"Thinking is what I do. Besides," Charlie released his right hand grip and scrubbed the palm on his jeans, "I don't find the idea of someone with a loaded gun in their hand 'not thinking' encouraging."

Don chuckled. "Yeah, well, when you're running head-on into an unknown situation involving armed felons, it helps not to have too many brains. Here - let me show you - "

He reached for the gun and caught a glimpse of Charlie's expression. His face changed. "What?"

Charlie shook his head, eyes brimming.

Don pried the gun out of his grip and checked the cocking lever before setting it aside. "What did I say now? Look, Charlie, I didn't mean - "

Charlie held up a hand to stop him, his throat jerking in a swallow. "I thought you were going to die," he whispered at last.

Don put a hand on his shoulder. "Okay - okay, let's just sit on the grass for a second…" He exerted gentle pressure until Charlie sank to the ground, squatted beside him. "Do you need to put your head between your knees?"

Charlie shook his head, tipping forward until he was stretched out on the grass with his head buried in his arms.

Don kept a hand on his shoulder. After a while he ventured, "Better?"

"Yeah." Charlie rolled over onto his back.

"Want to tell me what that was all about?"

Charlie grimaced. "I don't know. Every once in a while it still…I don't know."

"Oh." Don dropped back on his butt in the grass next to him and let his forearms rest on his knees. "Look, maybe we should just forget this whole shooting thing - grab a couple of beers instead."

"No." Charlie pushed up his goggles and rubbed his palms over his eyes, shaking his head. "No. I really want to. Just - just give me a minute."

Don frowned at him, started to say something, then nodded instead. He tilted his face to the sky as if he saw something important there, then stretched out on the grass next to Charlie, eyes still on the small cluster of puffy white clouds. "So," he said after a moment of quiet, "I'll tell you mine if you'll tell me yours."

"I didn't say I was still having - "

"Yeah, right. That's why we've got a baby gate up at the head of the stairs."

Charlie made a face. "Yeah." He sighed. "When there hasn't been a baby in the house for more than thirty years."

"Oh, I don't know - " Don's hand shot out before Charlie could duck and roughly mussed his hair. "You'll always be our baby."

"Cut that out!" Charlie twisted his head away, wrapping his arms around his hair to protect it. "You're so annoying."

Don grinned. "Thanks."

"It wasn't a compliment."

"And yet, I'm flattered."

Charlie pushed Don's arm as hard as he could from that angle, but Don just laughed at him, so he let his head thud back on the ground in frustration. "You really have them too?" he asked in a different voice.

Don nodded, realized Charlie probably couldn't see that and said, "Sure."

"What are yours about?"

"I asked you first."

Charlie grumbled. "You're so - "

"Annoying. I know. You don't have to tell me."

"Would you still tell me yours?"

"No way."

Charlie clucked his tongue in disgust and Don gave him a quick, furtive glance.

"It's always the same," Charlie said slowly, after a swallow. "Well, almost. I'm - waiting in the hall. And I hear what Soames - what he's doing to you. And I hear the - shotgun. And I try - I try to get to you - to get to you on time, but I'm moving so slow. Or I can't find the way. Or the sounds keep moving farther and farther away…"

"That's why you're walking around in your sleep?"

"I guess so."

Don turned his head to study him. "You did get there on time, you know. Not that it was your job to, but you did. And I'm right here. Everything's okay. Soames is in prison - unless Coop really did stop by and kick his butt."

"I know, I know - at least, my head knows. Until the lights go out, anyway."

"And that shrink isn't any help at all?"

"Yeah - he's good. It just takes - time, I guess."

"Cause you can see somebody else, if he's not helping."

"No, I - I think I have an algorithm worked out that will balance the actual outcome against the various potential outcomes…my theory is that if I can see it in facts, in numbers, it will throw it into perspective."

"Yeah. That was gonna be my next suggestion."

Charlie snorted. "So, what's yours?"

Don was silent for so long that Charlie pushed up on his elbows to look at him. "You said."

"I know, I know. It's not - it's pretty much what you'd figure." He rested a forearm over his eyes to dampen down the sun. "Pretty much what happened. You, with a gun - only the gun's about as big as your head…" he tried to laugh, but it fell short. "Anyway. You keep…looking at me. Like you want me to tell you what to do. All the time holding that big, big gun… Oh, yeah, and you're…" His hand hovered about three feet off the ground. "…like, eight or something."

"What happens then?"

"I don't know. I wake up."

"So, maybe if you show me how to shoot the gun, you won't worry about it in your sleep."

Don almost smiled. "Yeah. Maybe." He slapped Charlie lightly on the leg. "You ready to give it another try?"

Charlie sat up and nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I am." He climbed to his feet.

Don followed suit more cautiously, one hand bracing his ribcage. He picked up the gun and examined it. "Want to try reloading?"

Charlie eyed the row of bullet clips. "Um - okay."

Don ejected the empty clip and handed him the gun, then a fresh clip.

Charlie held them gingerly. "So…I just, um…?"

"Use the heel of your palm to slam it in there - but listen to make sure it catches. One thing about that gun - sometimes it seems like the clip is engaged when it isn't quite. You need to check."

Charlie shoved the clip into the opening, then pushed at it again. "I can't tell…"

"Here." Don took the gun back, checked it. "Yeah - you're good."

"What happens if it doesn't engage?"

Don glanced at him from under his brows. "Bullets don't feed."

"Really?" Charlie accepted the gun, turning it this way and that. "That can't be good."

Don laughed.

"I never realized so many things could go wrong."

"Naw - not really. It's a good gun. You just need to know your equipment, that's all."

"You were going to show me." And when Don looked at him questioningly, "Before. You were just about to."

"Oh." Don took the gun back, checked it again, balanced it in his palm. "You want to keep your legs relaxed…" He lifted the gun in front of him, made a face. Things were better - much better - but this was a movement that still pulled on his ribcage, and his left hand grip was still a little awkward. "Everything should line up. Now - "

"You really think about this? I mean, in a firefight, with somebody shooting at you, you really think about all these things?"

Don shook his head. "You don't have time to think about them at all."

Charlie scowled. "Back to the shooting but not thinking. Just - doesn't make sense to me."

"It's not - you think. You make judgment calls all the time, but they happen - I don't know - almost _before_ thought." He lowered the gun. "You know what it's like? Remember Mary Lou Retton, the gymnast? I read this article about her once. She said that a gymnast should know her routine so well that, if someone woke her up in the middle of the night, drove her to a strange location and put her in a strange room, she could still perform it perfectly in her pajamas. It's like that. Your body has to move ahead of part of your mind, or I'll tell you, half the time you'd just be standing there, frozen, trying not to wet your - what the heck are you grinning about now?"

"Nothing." Charlie ducked his head, but the grin didn't lessen.

"Yeah, right - come on, what did I say?"

Charlie's grin stretched. "You used a little analogy to teach me." And when Don just stared blankly at him, "That's what _I _do."

Don's eyelids dropped to half-mast. "Yeah, so?" he challenged.

Charlie shrugged elaborately. "I thought maybe you picked that up from me."

Don made a scoffing sound, but his eyes held a discreet twinkle. "Right. Dream on." He adjusted his ear protectors and re-set his stance.

"I think you did," Charlie insisted. "All those lectures at the FBI…"

"Sheer coincidence." Don's tone was dismissive, but one corner of his mouth curled up.

Charlie saw it and looked smug, then fumbled quickly with his ear muffs, just before the pistol barked, four times in rapid succession, the barrel rock-steady.

Don lowered the gun and glanced at him. "Sorry. I thought you were ready."

Charlie tried to squint at the targets, to see how many were down. "When you taught me to fire a rifle, you said that it was different with a paper target. I thought - I thought you meant because a paper target just waited for you and didn't move."

Don studied the weapon. "I did mean that." He hesitated. "Partly."

"Okay. But - what I didn't get - until - you know - was…that it would be so hard to aim at a living person. I mean, even a person doing something really bad. Knowing you had the power - to kill them."

Don kept his gaze on the gun, running rapidly through a series of checks. "Yeah," he said at last.

"Does it - do you - "

"Charlie - " Don's eyes were on the targets now. "…don't."

Charlie fell silent.

After a minute, Don gestured to the gun. "So, were you watching at all, or were you just blabbing?"

"I wasn't - I didn't - " Charlie sputtered indignantly. "I - can do both."

Don laughed. "Good thing. Let's see." He handed him the gun.

Charlie looked out over the course, then sideways at Don. "So - are you a really good shot?"

Don frowned in surprise, then shrugged warily. "I do okay."

"Edgerton said that that shot you made - the Hoyle shooting - was impressive. Not in his class, he said, but still - "

Don's mouth quirked. "Sounds like Edgerton."

"Yeah. Moving vehicle, direct hit, mid-forehead, he said. Even turned the car off course. Coming from him, I thought - "

Don scratched at his ear, his expression bleak. "Yeah. I guess so."

"So. You are?"

Don stared out across the course, away from him. "You know me," he said at last. "All about hand/eye coordination." He reached for the ear protectors around his neck.

Charlie still held the gun carefully in front of him, arms lax, making no move to shoot. "So, do you have, like, awards or something?"

Don glanced at him, his face expressionless. "We say 'decorated', Charlie. What's this all about, anyway?"

"I just - I - want to know. I feel like I should know."

Don gripped the ear protectors tightly in both hands, then shrugged. "Yeah. Yeah, okay - sure. I do."

"So, can I see them?"

Don half-laughed, a little bewildered. "They're in a box in my spare room - certificates and stuff, mostly. Not much to look at."

"I want to see."

Don tilted his head at him, then shook it. "Whatever you say." He pointed to the gun. "You wanna keep blabbing, or you gonna shoot that thing?"

Charlie looked down at the gun, shifted his feet into a comfortable position. "How's that?"

"If it feels right, it's probably okay. Trust your body, Charlie - you know, that thing that carries your brain around. It knows a couple of things of its own."

Charlie harrumphed, then raised the gun. "Eyes open…eyes open…" he muttered under his breath. He resisted the urge to yank on the trigger and pressed gently instead. The gun bucked in his hands and he wondered how anybody ever got used to that feeling. He lowered it cautiously. "How'd I do?"

Don nodded. "Not bad. You winged him."

"That all?" Charlie frowned in disappointment.

"What? You getting blood thirsty?"

"No - I - I know that's not what you do."

Don dangled his ear protectors from one hand. "Thanks for reminding me. You're not in training, Charlie - I thought you just wanted to get a feel for it."

"I do." Charlie peered at the slide stop that had caused him so much trouble last time. "But I want it to feel authentic."

"Trust me. You don't." Don held out a hand for the gun. "You done? I'll show you how to break it down."

Charlie watched him. "So why don't you? You know - aim to wound? Wouldn't it be better to have a suspect alive?"

Don didn't look up from the gun. "Too risky. A wounded guy can still shoot back - or shoot somebody else." He ejected the clip. "I was on a call once - the guy was on PCP or something - we hit him over twenty times, and he was still standing, still firing back. Couple incidents like that and they finally upgraded standard ammo from 9mm anyway."

He caught a glimpse of Charlie's face. "I didn't mean to freak you out."

Charlie shook his head. "No, I - I just - " he sighed. "Every time I think the variables are looking pretty good, I find out something like that."

"Nothing's a sure thing, Charlie. But I know what I'm doing. You just need to trust that."

"Yeah, well, then show me the awards. Decorations. Whatever you call them."

Don gave a short laugh. "Come on. I'll buy you a beer."

Charlie pulled the ear protectors from around his neck. "You know what I'd really like to do?"

"What's that?"

"Shots."

Don's brows soared. "It's - like - three o'clock in the afternoon."

"You telling me you've never done it at three in the afternoon?"

"I wasn't looking to set a precedent. My team giving you bad habits?"

"It's not - I wouldn't call a second time a _habit_ - "

"Yeah? I'm bettin' Dad would. _Donnie_ - " Don changed his voice to mimic Alan's. "_Do you really think it's wise to introduce your brother to firearms and hard liquor? You know he's more at home with a piece of chalk in his hand_…"

Charlie laughed. "He wouldn't."

"Wanna bet?"

Now Charlie was nettled. "It's not like you introduced me to hard liquor. That wasn't exactly the first time I've done shots."

"Tell him."

"Is that a _yes_?"

Don bent stiffly to collect the rest of their gear. "I thought you said that worked out great last time. Why do you need to do it again?"

"I don't know." Charlie shrugged self-consciously. "You weren't there, I guess."

Don stared at him, then shook his head, a smile creeping into the corners of his mouth. "Just - watch your intake. Remember, my ribs aren't one hundred percent yet, so I can't be hauling you back into the house. You're on your own there."

"Yeah? Well, my ribs _are_ one hundred percent and I _still_ won't be able to haul you, so you watch yours!"

Don thrust the ear protectors and goggles into Charlie's hands. "Carry some of the gear for your poor, broken brother."

Charlie accepted the equipment and arranged it neatly over his arm. "So we're going?"

"Yeah, yeah - why not. I could use a shot myself, now that prohibition is over."

Charlie paused, his expression changing. "You aren't still taking…?"

Don held up a hand. "Just 'as needed'. As long as we don't do anything stupid, I shouldn't need it."

"I don't do stupid things." Don's responding laugh was a little too hearty for Charlie's liking. "I don't," he insisted.

"What do you call bursting into a room where you don't know what's going on with a gun you don't know how to use when you know an armed felon is waiting?"

"I call that - " Charlie hesitated. "brave," he defended himself.

"Yeah," Don flung a free arm over his shoulders, wincing a little at the motion. "Me too." He patted Charlie on the chest with his other hand. "Just don't kid yourself that the two things are mutually exclusive."

Charlie looked pleased despite himself. "Well, you should know," he grumbled.

"Yep," Don agreed cheerfully, "I'd say I'm an expert."

_TBC_


	38. Chapter 38

_Epilogue, Part 2_

_A/N: Yeah, I know - long time, no finish. But the summer got eaten alive by Terrorism and Public Security, and since it was a worthy cause, it's hard to feel bad about it. So here is the end of "Quarry", a full year in the making. If I'd seen that one coming, I probably never would have had the nerve to start it. _

_The good news (for me, anyway) is that I tried an experiment called "100 words for 100 days" that kept me writing in small bursts all summer long. Not the uninterrupted burst I needed to finish this, but it does mean that I have some fun stuff waiting in the wings to share. In the meantime, here is the final cap to "Quarry". For all of you who sent me messages and got this far, I cannot thank you enough. You are the best. Hope you enjoy the (long) ending._

"Vodka? Really?" Charlie watched, wrinkling his forehead in surprise, as the bartender set the short glasses in front of them and withdrew.

"They keep it in the freezer here - it's good. But sometimes I go for tequila - picked that one up in New Mexico." Don threw the vodka back and tapped the counter for a refill. "What about you, huh? Wild turkey? And you say my team isn't a bad influence - I smell Colby's example there."

"Okay, so I'd never had that one before. It was good. Maybe I should try the vodka."

Don smiled at the bartender as she refilled his shot, then glared at Charlie in alarm. "No, no - uh-uh. No mixing. I'll probably get to live if I bring you home drunk - all bets are off if I bring you home sick."

Charlie downed his Wild Turkey, coughing a little, and gestured to the bartender before turning to Don. "What's this stuff about _you_ bringing _me_ home? This was my idea. _I_ drove. Maybe Dad will be all over me for bringing _you_ home drunk."

Don choked on his second shot, had to cover his mouth to cough. "Oh, man," he moaned, massaging the soreness in his breastbone where the alcohol had re-routed. "Man, I'd love to see that."

Charlie tossed back his second shot. "It could happen just like that. Dad could be - he could be - all - mad at me."

"It couldn't happen _just _like that because if we have much of this stuff, neither one of us is driving - we're calling a cab." Don swayed in a little closer to get a better look at Charlie. "You aren't drunk already, are you?"

"Of course not!" Charlie tapped his glass sharply on the counter to get the bartender's attention.

Don nodded in response to the bartender's questioning glance, and she refilled his glass as well. "We'd better slow down a little, or we both will be."

"Speak for yourself."

"Okay. Just remember how much you enjoyed that last hangover."

"We'll be all right." Charlie moved a wooden bowl between them and gestured expansively. "We just need something in our stomachs. Have a beer nut."

Don obediently grabbed some. "I don't mean to argue with the scientist among us," he mumbled around a mouthful, "but I think they use these to make you thirsty so you order MORE drinks. I don't know that they actually soak much up."

Charlie took Don's shot glass out of his hand and waggled it, as well as his own, at the bartender. "I don't think you're getting into the spirit of the thing. You need another shot. We should do a toast or something."

"Some of us are in danger of getting toast-ED."

Charlie ignored him. "I know!" he said suddenly. "Megan told me something today."

Don retrieved his freshly-filled glass and eyed him suspiciously. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. She told me someone had started an anonymous scholarship at the Police Academy in J.D. Connelly's name."

Don took a sip. "She's turning into quite the little chatterbox."

"She thought it might be something I'd be interested in donating to." Charlie enjoyed another mouthful, slowly this time. "She's right."

Don threw back the last of his glass, a little more violently than necessary. "Yeah, well, it's your money."

"Yup." Charlie nodded, gesturing to the bartender for refills. "So I'm thinking - we should drink a toast to J.D. Connelly."

Don froze, watching the clear liquid fill his glass.

Charlie raised his own glass. "To J.D. Connelly."

Don raised his more slowly, clicked it against Charlie's. "To J.D.," he echoed softly. They drank in unison, their glasses thudding back on the bar top.

Don let his head hang for a moment, until Charlie said quietly, "What are you thinking?"

Don coughed into his fist. "I'm thinking that maybe a man just coming off of strong meds shouldn't be having all these shots."

"You want to call it quits?"

"Hell, no. I want a refill." Don gave the bartender his best smile and she blinked, then made her way to them with a bottle in each hand.

"You boys celebratin' something special or drownin' yer sorrows? Because either way, you might want to pull back the pace, just a touch."

"Celebrating," Charlie nodded.

Don looked more skeptical. "Little of both." He took just a sip of the next one though, nursing it. "We'll slow down. It's just - been a rocky ride." He leaned back in his bar chair, turning the half-full shot glass thoughtfully in his fingers. "So. Celebrating, you say. What are we celebrating?"

"I don't know," Charlie grabbed a fistful of beer nuts. "Soames being in prison. You having two hands and two eyes again. Me not blowing anybody's brains out by accident." He chewed the beer nuts and swallowed. "You being alive."

Don smiled slightly. "Well, you're a real glass-half-full kinda guy." He raised the rest of his shot to Charlie in salute and drank, then lowered it back to the counter, resting his forearms against the marble lip. One finger traced the round rim of the glass. "I think he would have made a really good cop, you know?"

Charlie nodded. "Why not. He had a really good mentor."

Don held himself very still. "Thanks," he said quietly. He gave the glass a spin. "Not a day goes by…I have a bunch of those now. Things that I - wish had happened differently. Or that I'd done differently - that cross my mind every day. Keep this up and in another couple of years I won't have time for anything but thinking about all the things that I wish I could go back and change." He noticed he was playing with his glass and threw it back to drain the last drops. "Guess that's what nights are for." He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

Charlie nudged Don's elbow with the bowl of beer nuts, took another handful himself. "You can't - I mean, to even do your job. How can you, if you hang onto things?"

Don spun the now-empty glass until it danced like a dreidel. "That's the quandary, all right - let go of too much, you become like a machine and you lose your edge. Hang on to too much and you become a wreck - lose your edge."

"So…what do you do?"

"I don't know." Don slapped his palm on the shot glass to stop its twirl and studied Charlie through half-hitched lids. His mouth lifted in a suggestion of a smile. "Have shots with your brother, I guess."

Charlie dipped his head to hide a grin. "Then I think you need a refill."

Don grinned back for real this time. "Man, you must be a genius." He jerked his chin at Charlie's glass. "But I don't drink alone."

"I'll keep that in mind." Charlie lifted a hand to signal the bartender.

0

"Wow." Don rested his head against the cool marble lip of the bar top for just a minute. "It's really hot in here. You're the math guy - how many would you say we've had?"

Charlie lifted his own head from the bar and squinted at him, calculating. "Well, we've been at it now for almost - " he frowned at the clock face on the opposite wall, "Um - hm. They should get some numbers for that clock, instead of those big blurry dots."

"Sloppy workmanship," Don agreed, without lifting his head.

"No - no standards," Charlie nodded.

"So - how many?"

Charlie blinked owlishly. "How many what?"

Don raised his head, leaned carefully back in the bar chair and stretched his neck. "Shots. C'mon, math guy - how many?"

"Oh. Right. Um…" Charlie considered. "We've been at it for - um - a couple of blurry dots now, so with - um - let's see - how many shots per hour, I'd say…"

Don tilted his head to wait for the answer, found he'd tilted a little to far and slapped a palm on the counter to catch his balance.

Charlie's eyes narrowed with focus. "Professionally, I'd have to say - exactly - uh - " he waved a hand. "A lot."

Don rubbed his forehead. "That many?"

Charlie considered. "A whole lot," he corrected. "To be exact." He balanced the bowl of beer nuts on the upended shot glass in front of him. "In my professional opinion."

"Uh huh. You do good math when you're drunk."

Charlie nodded solemnly. "That's because I'm a gen - a gen - "

"Genius."

"Right."

Don lifted his wrist and frowned at his watch. "Huh. Lookathat. My watch has blurry dots now too."

"Really?" Charlie leaned forward to look and Don shot out a hand to catch him by the shoulder and thrust him back upright as he seemed inclined to finish his lean face-down on the bartop. "Wow. Maybe it's something in the atmosphere. Larry and me should…we should…"

"Call a cab."

Charlie frowned, interrupted in his already shaky train of thought. "No, Don - Larry and me calling a cab won't help anything. We need to be _here_ to figure - "

Don groaned. "Not - c'mon, genius - I mean for _us_. We can't drive."

"Oh." Charlie gave a serious nod that had him lifting a hand dubiously to check on the actual, as opposed to theoretical, placement of his head. "But - what about my car?"

"We'll come get it in the morning. It'll be okay."

"It's new," Charlie protested. "I don't want it…we could call Dad to come get us."

Don fixed him with a bleary stare. "Huh. Are you _sure_ you're my brother?"

"Not always," Charlie admitted. "C'mon. Dad won't be - I mean, we're…y'know…grown men…"

"Yeah, that's always stopped him." Don tried his head on the marble lip of the bar again. It was nice and cool there. "Besides, he can only drive one car at a time, so it doesn't fix anything."

"I could call Larry."

"Same problem. He can only drive…well, with Larry, I'm not positive, maybe he can drive two, but it doesn't seem likely."

"Larry and Amita…"

"Cab. 'Sbetter. Throw up in a cab, you can leave a big tip. Throw up in a friend's car…Cab. Much better."

"Voice of experience."

"Damn straight."

"I called you gents a cab." Don pushed himself up from the bar and managed a slightly lopsided smile for the bartender this time. "You should be on your way before the post-work rush shows up."

"Hey," Don pushed himself fully erect again, teetering a little. "Dad had a meeting. We might beat him home."

Charlie frowned. "We don't have to - sneak in. I mean, it's my house."

"I guess." Don sounded less certain. "Didn't you _ever_ sneak in? Like, _ever_?"

Charlie blinked, then shook his head, put a hand to it again, as if to check its existence. "I don't think so."

"Wow." Don reached across to Charlie's shot glass and beer nut edifice and added his shot glass to the bottom of the tower, carefully setting the beer nut dish back on top. "I guess we really are different."

"Fifty percent different, fifty percent the same."

"Huh?"

"DNA. Siblings are fifty percent different, and fifty percent the same. I mean, not necessarily exactly - sometimes it forty-eight to fifty-two, or…well, you get the point."

"Oh." Don dismantled the shot glasses and beer nut dish and tried a different configuration. "Guess that explains a lot." He studied his handiwork. "Maybe we should drink to that."

Charlie took apart Don's construction, carefully balancing them in a new pattern. "Can't. We're cut off."

"Right." Don nodded wisely. "With water, then. Water would be good anyway."

"Good idea." Charlie gestured to the bartender, then hesitated, his face changing.

"Hey, Don?" he blurted suddenly. "I - there's something I need to tell you."

Don looked at him in surprise, the pleasant blur of alcohol slipping, his expression shuttering slightly. "Okay."

"Um - " Charlie hesitated. "Dad said - he said you were going to sell your baseball cards on eBay."

"Oh." Don relaxed. "Well, I was really kind of - coming up with an excuse. So I didn't have to tell him what was going on."

"I know."

"You know?" Don accepted a glass of water from the bartender and drank, watching Charlie over the rim. "How?"

"Well - I - um - " Charlie cleared his throat, picking up his own water. He mumbled into the glass.

Don stared at him, suspicion returning. "Huh?"

"I - " Charlie put the glass down and swallowed. "I know because - I have them."

"What?!" Don misjudged the bar and set the water down harder than he intended, slopping it in a puddle. "You - what are you doing with my baseball cards?"

"Well, I - " Charlie held up his hands placatingly. "I didn't mean to - I just found them, and then I thought I'd take a look at them - you never used to let me pick them up and look at them," he finished in an injured tone.

Don wiped his wet hand on his shirt. "That's because you used to get distracted with big - math thoughts and write on them - numbers, squiggles - "

"Those - those weren't squiggles, they were…"

"Not the point, Charlie!"

"Yes, well. I don't do that any more. Write on them, I mean. I meant to give them to you, but I forgot I had them until - I mean, you should be glad! That's how I knew something was wrong!"

Don leaned his elbows on the counter and rubbed his forehead with the heels of his hands. "I - " He stopped. "It's not - " He let his hands drop and faced Charlie as directly as he could manage with the slight sway interfering. "Charlie. Do you remember what Mom used to say?"

Charlie looked thoughtfully innocent. "…about?"

"Charlie."

"Oh. You mean about…how…" he took a deep breath and recited, "everybody is entitled to a little privacy."

Don continued to stare silently.

Charlie made a face. "…even older brothers," he finished sullenly.

"Yeah. Think you're going to give that a try any time soon?"

Charlie smiled faintly. "I'll take it under advisement."

Don groaned and laughed at the same time. "And you wonder why I don't tell you things."

"Hey!" Now Charlie looked indignant. "You can tell me things!"

"You tell Dad."

"I do not! That was - years ago!"

Don closed one eye at him. "_Donnie, Charlie tells me you were shot at today. Again._"

"Why does that surprise him, anyway? What does he think you do for a living?"

"He's in denial. I like it that way."

"Okay - so, that one time."

Don folded his arms. "_Donnie, what do you think you're doing? Charlie tells me that there is obviously something going on between you and Agent Warner. If you want things to work out with Robin_…"

Charlie held up a hand. "I'll admit, I was sorry I - okay, two. Two times. Big deal."

Don raised a brow. "_So, Charlie tells me Liz Warner is back_…"

"I just happened to - that one doesn't count. I was just - making conversation."

"_Donnie_," Don continued relentlessly, "_Charlie tells me you think this job is too dangerous for me - _"

"I was thinking out loud - so that's - what - three or four - "

Don's other brow rose to join the first one. "_So, Donnie, tell me about this prosecutor - Hodges, Charlie says her name is - _"

"Well, someone has to keep him up to date on the news - "

"_My_ news…? Maybe that could be me?"

"You don't!"

"My choice! Oh - the best thing about _that_ one was that Larry was evidently in on it too and came down to give me romantic advice- "

"Oh yeah." Charlie scratched the back of his neck. "I forgot Larry and Amita were there."

"_Amita??! _You discussed my love life with _Amita_? What was this, a forum?"

"Taxi's here!"

Both men reached automatically for their wallets. "I've got it, I've got it - " Charlie set his wallet, which seemed to have taken on a life of its own, on the bar top to pick through the billfold. "It was - my idea…"

"Then I'll get the tip." Don fumbled through his own wallet, frowning at the bills which suddenly looked blurrily alike. "I can't believe you guys sat around and discussed - I mean, tell me the truth - is my life a topic of discussion in your math lectures too?"

Charlie carefully counted out a series of bills then glanced at the tab, blinked, and offered a credit card instead. "I don't know. What part of your life are we talking about?"

"_Not_ funny." Don shot a stern look somewhere in his general direction, gave up on trying to see the bills clearly and left a small pile on the counter, devoutly hoping he'd left himself enough grocery money for the week. "I don't get you, man."

Charlie tried to stuff his wallet back in his pants pocket, missed repeatedly and decided to tuck it in his shirt pocket instead. "Well, I don't get you either. These people care about you - they're interested in your life. What's so terrible about that?"

Don leaned into the bar for a minute and closed his eyes with a sigh. "Just - get in the cab, okay? And give me your keys - I can't leave my gun box in your car." Charlie pulled out his keys and dropped them, doubled over to pick them up, snickering. "What's so funny?" Don demanded.

"I - I don't think - " Charlie slumped on the bar stool to hold himself upright. "You should be handling a gun - in your - condition."

Don bent for the keys, got them in one grab but staggered and had to snatch at Charlie's sleeve to steady himself. "It's locked in the box," he pointed out. "Unloaded. With a cable lock on. I can't - " his balance wavered, then he caught it again and pulled himself more or less straight. "leave it to be maybe stolen. Used in a crime. C'mon - " He tugged on Charlie's sleeve and Charlie slid off the stool and bobbled on his feet. "Cab."

Charlie let himself be herded along, still laughing, though he wasn't quite sure at what any more. He slid into the cab and waited until Don slid in beside him, the metal box tucked under his arm.

"Um - cab drivers take cards these days, right?"

Charlie nodded, letting his eyes slip closed. "We're taking a cab all the way back to Pasadena. Whatdyou think that will cost - about a million dollars?"

Don wrapped his arms around his gun box and closed his eyes as well. "Plus tip."

"Sure you don't want…to call Dad?"

Don snorted. "Give the driver the address."

Charlie leaned forward to give the address, misjudged the distance and slammed his forehead into the headrest in front of him.

"You okay?" Don didn't quite manage to open his eyes to check.

Charlie detached his forehead from the vinyl and rubbed absently at his nose. "Didn't feel a thing. Don – " His whisper came out inordinately loud. "I'm not sure what language this driver speaks."

Don did open his eyes this time. "I don't know. Urdu, maybe?"

"Oh." Charlie clung to the headrest. "Do you speak Urdu?"

Don grinned blearily. "Right now I'm not sure I speak English. Just point on the map."

"Okay. And Don?"

"Mm?"

"I'll do the talking with Dad."

Don gave a short burst of laughter. "Be my guest."

0

Alan pulled into the long drive with a sigh and turned off the engine. The meeting had gone well, with bright prospects for a very lucrative project, but it had been a long day and he was glad to be home. He reached for his briefcase and hit the door handle, thinking that a cold beer and a couple of minutes with the paper before deciding what to scare up for dinner sounded nice. His feet had just touched the gravel on the drive when he saw a cab pull up in front of the house and idle at the curb. He raised his brows. Visitors? He certainly wasn't expecting anybody, and there was no sign of Charlie's blue Prius.

He waited to see who would emerge, but the cab just sat there, engine idling, doors sealed shut. Or maybe somebody was lost? He strolled down to the curb, pinning on a polite smile and leaning in the passenger side window. "Can I help you with something?"

"Dad!"

Of all the voices he might have expected to hear, that one was probably the last and he swiveled in surprise to look in the back seat. Charlie leaned forward across the inert body of a gently snoring Don, who was sprawled next to him with his arms wrapped around a metal box.

"Dad!" Charlie repeated brightly, as though he feared he might not have been heard the first time, "Um – hi! How – how – how – how - " One of Don's hands released the box long enough to smack Charlie in the shoulder and interrupt his stutter, "- was your meeting?" He finished with a wide, if slightly vacuous, smile.

Alan stared, trying to get his bearings. "It was fine," he stammered blankly. "And – how was yours?"

"Ours was – ours was – ours was – " Don elbowed Charlie sharply this time. Charlie hiccupped. "Was just – really – great."

Alan blinked against the miasma of alcohol that accompanied his bursts of words. "I guess I can see that for myself." He pulled open the cab door. "Why don't you boys come inside?"

Don didn't budge. "Driver," he slurred succinctly. His hand fumbled over his pockets. "Good – tip."

"Yes, I should think so," Alan agreed dryly, reaching for his own wallet. "I'll get it and you can pay me back." He glanced at the meter and winced. "I'm glad you had the sense to take a cab anyway. You do realize that it's only six in the afternoon?" He tried to take the metal box from Don, who clung to it tenaciously, gave up and slid a hand under his elbow instead. "I hope you two can walk, because you're too big and I'm too old to carry either of you, never mind both."

Don nodded vaguely, turning himself until he tumbled out of the cab door, staggered. Alan was certain he was going to end up on the lawn, but before his knees could hit the ground, he caught himself and wavered semi-upright, leaning against the side of the cab for support.

Alan had to fight to suppress a smile. "How about you, Charlie? Do you need a hand?"

Charlie shook his head so emphatically that he had to blink and grab for the back of the driver's seat for a minute, but he did indeed manage to pull himself across the vinyl cushions and to the open door. He blinked harder at the sudden rush of sunlight. "So – " he continued with elaborate casualness, clinging to the open door. "How – um – how – was your meeting?"

This time Alan did smile, sliding a hand under one of his arms to ease him away from the door and grabbing ahold of Don with the other hand. "It was fine. Why don't I tell you all about it inside?"

"Good - good idea." Charlie's vigorous nod almost upset his balance, but he caught himself on Alan's shoulder.

Alan gave Don's sleeve a gentle tug to draw him away from the side of the cab. "I think the driver would like to leave." Don muttered something inarticulate and arced away from the cab without opening his eyes. Alan shook his head. "The door is this way…" he singsonged, trying to steer them both. Worse than herding cats, he thought with a grimace. "I thought you guys were going to play Frisbee golf - how did you end up in a bar this early in the day?"

They navigated the porch steps with surprising deftness, but then Alan stopped dead, flummoxed. He would need a hand free to unlock the door, but he didn't dare let go of either son. After a minute, he gave Don a gentle push that propped him against the house on one side of the door. Don leaned into the wall without protest, eyes still closed and arms still tightly clutching his metal box. He seemed to remain upright without any real problems, so Alan tried balancing Charlie against the porch railing while he wrestled the key into the lock.

"My - i - my - i - my -i - " Alan saw Don's arm automatically thrust out and connect with air, so he obligingly nudged Charlie's shoulder himself. Charlie gulped and nodded. "My idea." He nodded again, frowned and reached for his head. Alan pulled open the door and maneuvered him around it. Charlie paused in the doorway and grasped his arm, eyes solemn. "Don's drunk," he explained, in a stentorian whisper.

Alan drew back from this newest alcohol emission cloud, glanced back over his shoulder at his eldest, saw his mouth turn upward at the corners. "_Is_ he." He didn't even try to control the sarcasm in his tone. Charlie nodded again, put both hands to his head this time to re-center it. Alan urged him inside with a palm on his back, reaching for Don with his other hand and pulling him in after him. Don immediately sank down onto the arm of the nearest armchair, cradling his box, but Charlie bobbed in front of Alan, still clinging to his sleeve.

"It's my - " he explained - "It's totally - It's - " He took a deep breath and tried again. "Me. My fault. I did it." He nodded again, so hard that Alan had to grasp him hastily by the shoulders to keep him from ending up face first on the floor.

He looked past Charlie questioningly to Don, whose own shoulders were shaking with silent laughter. Don's eyes still looked closed to him, but he must have been able to see something, because he lifted a hand in Alan's direction to indicate his own mystification.

Alan shrugged and let go of Charlie, patting one shoulder lightly. "Well, I'm very disappointed in you, Charlie," he said soothingly.

Charlie nodded again, satisfied, taking an uncertain step backward to rebalance himself and landing on the sofa with an abrupt bounce instead. He looked surprised, but pleased, to find himself sitting down.

Alan looked from one to the other as Don slid slowly off the armrest until he was seated in the chair, one leg still dangling over the wooden arm.

Alan shook his head slowly. "I'll put the coffee on."

"Dad!"

He turned with one hand on the swinging kitchen door. "Yes, Charlie?"

Charlie blinked at him, then smiled a broad smile. "Um - how - how - how was your meeting?"

Alan opened his mouth, then closed it. "Coffee. Coming right up."

0

Alan found himself shaking his head as he measured coffee beans and scooped them into the grinder. _Well, wonders never ceased. _There was something he had never expected to see in his lifetime. Or any lifetime, for that matter. Charlie's and Don's age difference had precluded anything of the sort at the time in their lives when he might have otherwise expected it - despite the fact that Charlie had been plunked right into the middle of Don's High School years. And then they had been a full continent apart for college, and after that, both busy pursuing their own careers, frequently habitating different countries, never mind different coasts. He filled the coffee maker with water and hit the button for the grinder, trying to decide how Margaret would have felt about her boys' adventure with alcohol. He couldn't actually decide how he felt about it himself, though he did notice that he kept catching himself smiling. _Silly. _This was not the sort of behavior a father should encourage in his sons.

He gathered mugs and sugar for a tray, hesitated over the milk. _Don liked milk in his coffee, but under the circumstances…_

He peeked through the swinging door, noticed that Charlie was now curled on his side on the couch, and that Don had the chair reclined with the footrest elevated.

…_black would probably be best. Definitely black_.

He was about to return to the kitchen when he heard Charlie murmur something, and he paused.

"So…" Charlie reached for the afghan on the back of the sofa and pulled it over himself in a messy heap. "…can I borrow them?"

Don stirred, eyes still shut. "…sounds like you already…have!" There was a suggestion of resentment in his voice and Alan made a face. Here was a familiar argument.

Charlie snuggled deeper into the afghan. "Not your cards…" he objected muzzily. "You know. Your…"

His voice dropped and Alan leaned forward, trying to make out the word. He frowned. _Did he say "cuffs"?_

Don shifted enough to get a more comfortable grip on his box, his brows twitching together. "Are you kidding? No way! Do you know…how much it costs to kit yourself out in all that stuff? Get your own!"

"You never - " Charlie paused for a yawn, which in no way diminished his honed-with-practice, deeply-wounded-younger-brother tone. "Let me use your…stuff. I wouldn't even know where to get - "

Alan almost fell through the door trying to catch the last word. _It certainly __**sounded**__ like he said_ _"cuffs"_. _What on earth…?_

"You can buy some where I got mine." A sly smile crept across Don's face, belying the ultra-rational-older-brother tone of voice. "Of course, you need a law enforcement ID to shop there," he finished sweetly.

Charlie yawned again and buried his face in one of the sofa cushions. "You _never_ let me borrow your ID," he complained sleepily, as if just remembering a new grievance.

This is completely wrong, Alan scolded himself mentally. Eavesdroppers never hear well of themselves - or of anything else. But somehow, he was still standing in the doorway, ear cocked.

"Yeah, right." The box in Don's arms slid slowly into his lap as his grip loosened. "I'd ever done that, they'd _still_ be picking pieces of my body outta the water around the Santa Monica pier."

Alan made a face and ducked back into the kitchen to the rich smell of fresh coffee brewing.

See? Serves you right, he chided himself.

It had taken the perspective of nearly twenty years to realize how confusing their directives must have been to Don in those days…_include your brother! Include your brother! Include your…no, no, not in THAT! _No wonder he had eventually backed so far off. But back then, they'd had a bad habit of expecting Don to think and act like an adult, long before it was appropriate, and an equally bad habit of clinging to Charlie as their baby, long after THAT was appropriate. He sighed and wondered if _anybody _ever got it right - even people without their "special circumstances". He added his coffee pot to the tray of mugs and sugar and backed through the kitchen door with it, settled it on the coffee table before he realized that the breathing in the room was suspiciously deep and even.

Pursing his lips, he peeled the mound of afghan off of Charlie and shook it out, settling it more effectively over him. Then he went to the closet to fetch a blanket for Don.

He was returning with the blanket when he heard Charlie mumble, with drowsy redundancy, "You never let me use your stuff. Some things…never change."

He had the blanket unfolded and ready to spread when he paused to Don's answering murmur of, "Naw…everything...changes."

He smiled ruefully. Leave it to his boys to find a way to argue, even when half-conscious. He threw the blanket over his shoulder and tried to gently pry the metal box free from Don's grip. Don held on unbudgingly, and he gave up and spread the blanket over him anyway, box and all.

Funny thing, he mused, was that, as usual, they were both right. Lots of things changed - too many: the rules changed, the players changed, and people came and went fast and suddenly and long before you were ready. He straightened and looked from one dark head to the other, his expression softening. But - at the end of the day, there did seem to be a few things that stayed the same. He gave Don's arm a pat under the blanket and tugged the afghan a little higher over Charlie's shoulders. Then he turned to lift the tray and return it to the kitchen.

Don moved his head a little. "So, Chuck - "

Alan paused with the tray in his hands.

Charlie hitched the afghan until it was half over his head. "Don't call me Chuck," he insisted in a muffled grumble.

"Oh. Right." Don's tone would have sounded contrite to anybody who didn't know him better. His mouth ghosted a smile. "So, Chuckles. Ever been…to the Albuquerque balloon festival?"

Alan sat down abruptly on the coffee table, looking in surprise from one to the other.

"Uh uh…" Charlie's voice was barely audible from the depths of the sofa cushion. He paused. "Good...hiking…'querque."

Don's hand moved under the blanket, and Alan could tell it had settled protectively on top of his box. "'ZI was thinking." He managed a faint nod, then his lashes fluttered and went still.

No one spoke again, and after a minute, Alan smiled. _Well, well. On the other hand, maybe it wasn't so much that things changed. Maybe it was that they - grew. _

He put the tray back on the coffee table next to him, reached over and poured himself a cup. _It was a shame to waste it, after all. _And it'd been a long time since he'd had the opportunity to watch both his boys sleep. Plus, there was the double pleasure of knowing that if they woke and discovered him, they'd be completely mortified. His smile deepened, an odd combination of wickedness and tenderness. _Maybe it wasn't all about him and Margaret getting it right after all. Maybe it was about them giving the boys the tools to make it right themselves. _

Charlie stirred. "Dad," he mumbled, "How - "

Alan reached over and touched his head lightly under the afghan. "The meeting was fine, Charlie. Go back to sleep." Charlie was out again before he could finish speaking.

Alan sat back and sipped his coffee, finding a comfortable position where he could watch them both. With a satisfied smile, he reached for the paper. _And from where he was sitting, it looked like they were doing just fine. _

The End

_(August 2007)_

_PS zomish, I know you wanted Coop, but I already had this worked out in my head, if not on paper. But I'm a big Coop fan myself, so I'll try to come up with a one-shot follow-up where he stops by for you. _


End file.
